


And Then There Was One Persistent Admirer

by Anne_in_a_brown_suit



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), CHRISTIE Agatha - Works
Genre: Crack, F/M, terrible flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-05-31 06:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anne_in_a_brown_suit/pseuds/Anne_in_a_brown_suit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How could things have gone differently between Vera and Philip? A humorous take on the events taking place in BBC ATTWN, primarily based on Lombard’s subtle flirting techniques in canon. Crack</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and posted this fanfic at a dear friend’s request. It’s pure crack, so please don’t be too hard on me! ;P

In the train to Devon, Vera Claythorne is busy minding her own business and looking out the window when, suddenly, a shadow startles her out of her gloomy reverie. She has only time enough to notice handsome features and an intense look directed at her before a deep drawling interrupts her examination.

"Why, hello, you cute little thing! I couldn’t help but notice your smooth thighs from the other side of the car and I was wondering if you'd like to maybe have a cup of tea? And later get more intimate against a washroom door on the other side of the dinning car? Because I'd really like to get better acquainted with your lacy underwear..."

The slap resounds in the car. She gets up and walks away. Philip holds his aching cheek and looks at her retreating calves appreciatively.

She can hear an old lady whisper to her friend: “Did you see, my dear Jane? Young women these days… Flirting so shamelessly and making a spectacle of themselves…” The other starts: “You see, I knew a similar girl in St Mary Mead…”

Vera sneaks in first class, enters a compartment and sits in front of an old gentleman who’s sleeping near the window. It’s peaceful in here. She closes her eyes. She’s lost in thoughts when a loud rumbling snore startles her again. She sighs. This trip is already getting on her nerves.

***

Later, she gets off the train with the old gentleman and the other guests of Mrs Owen, her new employer. Before getting on the boat to Soldier Island, the serious-looking young woman is surprised to see that her bold admirer is among the passengers.

At least she should know his name, she reflects. Glancing at him, she asks: "Mister?"

He answers, smirking: "Lombard. Philip. But you can call me whatever you want... Phil. Philly. Lombardie. My manly stallion. My great tiger. My incredible sex god. Anything you like, my sweet little lamb..."

Vera ignores him. The others, including the boatman, give him weird looks.

In the boat, Philip starts again: "my magician and his big manly magic wand... Phi-I-want-to-kiss-your-Lip... My sexy dark stranger... Or more simply Mr Meet-me-in-my-room-later"...

Everyone ignores him by now.

_(The boat gets father from the coast... In spite of the wind, viewers can hear_ "my tempting jaguar? My racing heart? My flexible caveman? Because I can tell you I can be very flexible..." _)_

***

When they arrive at the mansion, they’re greeted by an ominous couple of servants who escort them to their bedrooms. Rogers walks slowly, swaying under the weight of two suitcases.  

"Will these gentlemen follow me to their rooms? No, sir, this is Miss Claythorne's room, you cannot enter. No, please, sir, do not put your suitcase near her bed, you're not staying here, sir..."

Vera confirms: "He's definitely not staying here."

Philip winks at her: "Alright, my little mouse, your big manly hairy cat knows how to get a hint! We're going to keep it a secret, huh? not telling the others that we're going to play "meet the bunny" under the sheets later, then? No problem, I can keep a secret, my sweet pumpkin!"

Everyone ignores him. Vera slams the door on his face. Miss Brent looks disapproving. Every man avoids getting too close to him in the corridor.

"You've seen that, huh? She's crazy over those strong shoulders. That jacket really flatters me. And the sunglasses, ladies love the sunglasses!"

The silence in the corridor is deafening, but he doesn't seem affected.

Later in the staircase Rogers spots Lombard sneaking around: "No, sir. There's nothing upstairs, you cannot go there. The wood is rotten. Unless you want to enter one of the bedrooms... by way of the ceiling...

\- Wow! How did you guess my plan, my good man?"

***

Before dinner, in one of the rooms downstairs, Vera reads the same poem that was placed in her room. Philip enters.

 "I guess there must be one in each of the rooms. Speaking of soldiers, I know this joke about a captain who put his shotgun standing near his chair and who missed the chair when sitting..."

Vera ignores him. She tries to walk away, but he blocks her path with his legs.

"Okay, you and I have gotten on the wrong foot. I can see that my comment about the washroom was a bit daring... But what can I say, you've got great legs! How could I have not stared at them?... Now maybe if you were to take the top off, I'd stop looking at your legs, just saying..."

Enters Marston: "Oh, Lombard! Miss Clay...thing! Want to get a drink?"

Vera smiles and says tentatively: "Oh, of course. A drink sounds good..."

Marston answers: "Then I'll have a Maiden's Blush, thank you, girl! And you can be generous with the gin!"

Vera frowns... But she gets him his drink.

"So, Lombard... Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Whatistheirnameagain? They're great pals of mine. Great house.  Great parties. Great legs... the both of them... Anyone who's anyone knows them. So do you?"

Philip ignores him. The younger man keeps going: "Are you a betting man, Lombard?

-I'm more like a leg man..." He glances at Vera but sees she's ignoring them both

"A leg man? Oh, right, you like to bet on horse races! Good sport, I'll grant you! But do you want to bet on the general? I'm sure his kind of military man can't help but talk about the last war and all those military things. Want to bet he'll tell us that next war…

-No.

-But he…

-No.

-But...

-No. The odds are too short. The skirts, on the other hand..."

Vera rolls her eyes. Marston can vaguely sense that something is going on. Something he's not grasping. Something somewhere. Like in his room... where the drugs are! He knows it: he needs to take some more! He stands up and says eloquently: "Well..." And Marston exits the room.

Philip glances again at Vera. She's studying the carpet intently. Since it's an awful pattern of flowers and monkeys playing among geometrical trees, he understands that she's ignoring him. He's a smart man.

So he tries to get her attention back on the important matter at hand: him, his overflowing sex appeal and the wonderful different positions they could try later in her room.

He coughs. She ignores him. He coughs louder. She keeps ignoring him.

He starts "You know, I get those instincts about people..."

She huffs and finally looks at him. He thinks "I knew the word instinct would awaken her more animalistic parts!" Fortunately, he's smart enough not to voice this intelligent conclusion: no need to warn the lamb about to fall into the trap...

So he keeps going: "I've got this instinct about you... I think you’re pretending…"

\- Pretending? Oh, really?

-Yes, pretending… Because there’s just no way you cannot feel the scorching sexual tension flaring between us. We could keep the whole mansion warm with it… As it is, that good Mrs. Rogers could probably roast a goose under the fiery look you’re aiming at me right now. I propose you’d just take your clothes off and come sit on my lap, as there is not a lot of time before dinner and that moron might realize he’s forgotten his drink and disturb us again…”

Vera looks at him with cold fury. Maybe he shouldn’t have called it “fiery”… It is more like “icy”… But with a hint of white-hot rage underneath. Philip feels conflicted. Should he rephrase his whole polished seduction speech? Then he shrugs it off: after all, ice can burn too, so maybe she won’t quibble over semantics. It’s not like she’s a teacher or anything.

As the silence stretches and she’s not starting to unbutton her blue dress hurriedly, Philip insists in a honeyed voice: “Come on, little mouse! Climb on that waiting lap! You know that I know that you want to…

-Mister Lombard!” Her jaws are clenched so hard it looks like she’s splitting the words out. “You seem to be under the impression… the _wrong_ impression… the _insulting_ impression… that I am a particular kind of woman. I assure you that I am not. And I assure you that I would never touch you with a ten foot pole -no, make that a fifteen foot pole- even if you had fallen in the water and were drowning in the middle of seaweed.

-I get it, I get it! You’re still grumpy about that washroom comment! It ruffled your sensibilities. I’m sorry! If it’ll make you happy, I’m sorry for staring too! Everywhere: in the train, on the boat when the wind was tantalizingly lifting the hem of that skirt, and when you were walking on the path, and climbing and coming down the stairs, and…

-Mister Lombard, I doubt you’re ever sorry for anything!

-You’re a smart girl. Now can we get down to business?”

He looks at her hopefully and taps his lap invitingly. Vera huffs and leaves the room. She goes to the dinning room, eats lobster soufflé, is accused of murder and gets her face splattered with the blood of a dying man. What a truly delightful evening.

The next morning, Vera is not very happy. She spent the evening scrubbing her face to get the blood off. She didn’t sleep well. She made a great effort to avoid thinking about the blood on her cheek, Hugo and the accusation thrown at her, the corpse cooling in the nearby room…. And the insistent scratching and tapping on her door half an hour after she retired to bed. Hopefully it was some mice and not the infuriating fool who’s been following her all evening.

***

Her mood doesn’t improve when she gets down for breakfast. There are now not one but two cooling corpses she has to try to forget. First that idiotic Marston, then that weird Mrs. Rogers… Two people she talked to. Two people she found deeply annoying. And now they’re dead. She can see a pattern here. It looks like the Grim Reaper might be cheerfully waving his bony arm at her and trying to relieve her stress a tiny little bit… Without getting her hopes up too much, she decides that talking again with Obnoxious Lombard –as she started calling him- may be called for. Just in case.

 

Philip is only too eager to converse when she tells them about the missing figurines and her growing suspicions. After Armstrong throws her suitcase on the floor in a fit of childish anger, he tries to help her retrieve the scattered clothes. When she looks up, he’s helpfully holding a pair of silk stockings. Hopefully she won’t notice the lace panties he’s snuck into his pocket…

When they’re alone, the questions are pouring out of her. A mark of interest, Philip thinks with approbation. Maybe she really didn’t hear him scratching on her door the previous night.

She asks without preamble: “Did you kill all those men?

-Yes, Miss Claythorne, I did kill all those men. And probably more. It was a bit difficult counting them in the darkness, there was no moon and we were in the jungle, you know…”

Vera is irritated: “Stop blabbling! Why?

\- Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. They had something that I wanted. In that case, it was diamonds. You see, there was that chum of mine, called Charles Morley, a good chap, but a little hot-headed and…

-To the point, Mr Lombard! To the point!

-Well, old Charlie had this wonderful scheme for finding diamonds. So we talked to that tribe and they were pretty friendly so we planned to lure them by earning their trust. I was supposed to be an itinerant teacher and he, a juggling acrobat fired from a circus, who had teamed up with me. The plan seemed completely fool-proof: they’d never suspect we were phonies. We even got a wonderful name to sell our story: “Lombord and Marley, Instruction and Entertainment for Even the Most Remote Tribes in East-Africa”! We were supposed to make them have a wonderful evening, then steal the stones when they were asleep. But things went… wrong…”

Philip starts fidgeting. As he’s growing nervous, he wipes his forehead with the stolen panties then hastily puts them back his pocket before Vera could recognize them.

Vera looks more and more horrified and confused: “Wrong? How wrong?

-Well, the teaching part was hard work! I kept fumbling with the alphabet, because one fool sitting at the front of the audience couldn’t grasp the difference between “b” and “p”! So we started arguing and we took the discussion outside. Then there was that dude who was supposed to look over the fire who fell asleep and the fire caught on the tent we planted for the lesson… One thing led to another and before we knew it, the whole village was on fire. We scampered out as people from another village started running in trying to help…

-You just left?”

He retorts with dignity: “They were yelling ‘find those damned cretins!’ from what I could grasp of their dialect. We had no choice in the matter. We had to save our lives. Now what about you? What did you want?

\- Right now, I want a stiff drink. You’re a fool.

Philip mutters: “I always knew it would catch up with me and here it is. Lombord and Marley? I told him those aliases weren’t good enough…”

***

A few hours later and with one more dead man in the mansion, Philip starts thinking. Really hard. In the many adventurous years he’s spent wandering the world, he’s learnt to keep his head cool. To think rationally. To see the facts, understand the situation and draw a sound conclusion.

When he saw the mess that was once General MacArthur’s head, he’s known that things were about to get very ugly if they didn’t get out of that damned rock of an island. His sweet little Vera is right. The woman has brains, in addition of a very pleasing figure and he can’t wait to explore both her mind and body… In fact, it’s almost uncanny how fast she sensed that something was wrong in a darker level than the other blind idiots could understand. His instinct has been on alert since arriving on the island, but he has been hired to stay on his guard and his life experience is much larger than hers.

In retrospect, he’s been right to get rid of his former associate. Morley was a reliable enough fellow and a resourceful one at that, but he would have only been a hindrance on Soldier Island. A few months ago, after one of too many so-called genius plans had gone awry, Philip had gotten fed up. He drew the line at the guy’s last suggestion that they could fly from the mess that the Amazonia had become for them by posing as female musicians in a travelling orchestra. Ah! Like that would ever have worked! Philip’s manly sex appeal was too blatant! Not to mention that he had never been good at playing the bass. He ditched Charlie and relied on one of his false passports to get out of South America. “Felipe Lombardo” had no trouble getting on the fist boat sailing to Great Britain.

 

After a few minutes of contemplation, Lombard is joined by the rest of the party. The remaining guests begin comparing their stories until Wargrave addresses him directly.

« Now, Mr Lombard, Mr Blore here has informed us that you have a gun in your possession. I’d like you to hand it to me.

-What? No!”

Philip is indignant. Tubs has snitched him to the nearest figure of authority… And he thought they were getting along rather well… In retaliation, he decides that it is his turn to disclose a few tidbits of information: “Okay, Judge, since it’s confession time on your clock, Marston was poisoned. Cyanide. And jolly Tubbs here was trying to kiss his corpse.

-What? It’s not true! I was sniffing! Sniffing!

-Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Keep your composure, please! Mr Lombard, I am sorry, but I have to insist that you give me the gun.

-And the answer is still no.”

Armstrong chimes in with the delightful tact that always characterizes him: “Why do you have a gun in the first place, you filthy criminal?

-Well, you see, doctor, everyone here has brought something they considered to be of first necessity. For instance, you’ve brought sleeping medication… that you seemed very eager to administer I must say. The judge’s brought his black notebook, probably in case he had to interrogate one of the guests during a friendly weekend on the coast. Miss Brent’s brought her wool and needles. Miss Claythorne, I’m sure, has brought interesting underwear. Tubbs has brought socks. And I’ve brought my gun. End of the story.

-I was sniffing, Lombard! Tell them I was only sniffing!

\- My instinct and my eyes doubt it, Tubs. By the way, I’ve been dying to ask: how the hell did our friend Owen manage to lure you on this remote island? I can understand he handed out invitations to the upper-class members of our little group, and that the remaining working class like myself could be bribed under the pretext of a well-paid job… But what would require a cop to shut himself up here when a crime hadn’t even been committed yet? Or is there something that you forgot to mention?

-Well, Mr Owen suspected that someone was here under false pretense and since he had heard of my impeccable standing in the force… Oh, stop guffawing, Lombard! If you must know, I’ve found you suspicious from the start! But what Owen didn’t say was that you would have a gun!

-What I find suspicious, my good Tubs, is that you did not think it would be useful to have one. If there was a possibility that you could arrest a shady character, how did you think you would subdue him? By blowing your foul breath under his nose and making him faint?

-Gentlemen, please! Lombard, Tubs- I mean Blore has a point. Your gun makes you suspicious. I strongly suggest you prove your innocence by handing it to me.

\- Judge, no. No. And no again. My gun is perfectly fine where it is, in the first drawer of the nightstan… it’s perfectly fine where it is. And I had a good reason to bring it with me: my client, the vile Owen, feared the situation might become volatile so he hired me. That’s what that Morris guy told me in Soho when he paid me.

-Soho?” Miss Brent’s nose twitches with disapprobation. “A sink of depravity. A God-less desert of vice.” Her eyes flicker to Vera with contempt. The younger woman chooses to ignore her muttering of “a rising tide of unwanted babies drowning our respectable English society” as well as Philip’s insistent winks from the other side of the room.

The reunion ends with Wargrave pointing out and repeating that U.N. Owen is unknown, which seems fairly obvious to Philip. Really, if they knew who the fiend was, they would have dealt with him already. The old man is a little dim sometimes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could things have gone differently between Vera and Philip? A humorous take on the events taking place in BBC ATTWN, primarily based on Lombard’s subtle firtling techniques in canon. Crack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 2! It's darker, but still ridiculous! ;P A big thank you to GothicWolf03 and to LeSeulMoyenDeLiberte as well as the anonymous guest who left kudos! That's really sweet, thank you!

 

Soon, suspicions find an easy prey in the recently widowed Rogers.

They start watching him. Everything he does suddenly looks creepy, from his habit of hovering gloomily in dark corners to the sinister manner he sweeps the deserted hallway, swinging his broom like a weapon. Dusting has never looked so deadly… There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that he murdered his former employer, so whispering that he also killed his wife is only going a step further.

Huddled together in the same room, they start gossiping like old ladies delighted over the latest scandal.

 “From my experience, the husband is always the first suspect” Blore comments. He tries to catch the eye of the other expert in criminal matters, but Wargrave is busy looking out the window at a curiously shaped cloud. Or maybe he’s ignoring him, Blore can’t be too sure.

“And the butler always did it in books”, Armstrong also states, remembering the one odd foray he made in a library years ago. “Or at least that’s what I think. I guess… I don’t really read that sort of junk. It’s quite below my level and I’m a very busy man.

\- Why are you quoting it then?

-Leave him alone, Mr Lombard. I’m sure Doctor Armstrong’s literary tastes only include The British Medical Journal. He wouldn’t know the difference between The Lady of Shalott and Peter Rabbit.” Vera’s voice is icy. Armstrong throws her a venomous look and mutters something about not liking rabbit with shallots anyway.

Miss Brent helpfully interrupts him by remarking that “It’s so _hard_ to find good help these days, as I well know… The average servant is so dissolute and unprincipled…”

Since nobody reacts to her wistful observation, the proper spinster lets the conversation dwindle. She doesn’t want to voice the true reason behind their sudden revulsion towards Rogers: the servant is not really part of their little group. It’s easier, and much more comfortable, to turn on him than on one of the members of their fraying small society.

Emily Brent has always been bent on maintaining an air of respectability. She’s been a sticker for rules and conventions all her life. Unfortunately, her position is not shared by everyone… She looks sharply at Vera, who is busy huffing and changing her seating arrangement every time Lombard tries to sit closer to her, a leering smirk on his face. Young women can be so brazen nowadays. The old lady keeps observing Vera's irritated pout as Lombard tries once again to get her attention. She purses her lips and thinks sourly: "What a shocking lack of morals! She’s flirting and flaunting her impure charms at that terrible man! She should feel embarrassed instead of trying to seduce him so openly. And in front of us! No wonder she only works at a third-rate school. What an awful role model for those probably already loose poor souls..."

***

Doubts towards Rogers hit a peak during dinner: it doesn’t help that the diligent butler insists on serving them bleeding things at every meal.

“And there are the rare _tournedos_. I couldn’t find my late wife’s recipe for the sauce, so I made my special tomato sauce with red wine. Yes, Miss Brent, it’s cooked to perfection, madam… Two minutes each side. No, Mr Blore, it’s supposed to be eaten like this. Yes, it’s half raw. Yes, it’s perfectly normal, sir.”

The dignified, but clearly exasperated man exits the dinning room. The guests stare at the scarlet mess in their plates. Rogers’ skills in the kitchen don’t extent to artful dish presentation, obviously. It looks like he’s thrown everything onto the serving dish with a ladle, the ingredients falling haphazardly in a clutter of meat and sauce.

“First that horrible-looking _steak tartare_. And now this… Does this guy have a thing for raw meat?” Armstrong wonders aloud.

Vera interjects: “Why do you care? You’re not eating anyway, because you think it’s poisoned. I told you: there is a guideline to these murders. It’s the poem. The _poem_ , doctor. You should really read the _poem_ already! Get over your aversion for literature, I’m sure you’re not going to fall asleep half-way through the first verse!”

Armstrong ignores her: no use wasting his talents on random hysterical females when he’s not paid for it. Instead he focuses on Lombard with disgust. “How can you eat when you know that he may have slipped something into that “special” sauce?

\- That’s simple. I waited until Tubs started eating. He’s not frothing at the mouth yet, so it should be safe. But I admit that there is something suspicious in Rogers’ cooking. I couldn’t find any kidney in his liver and kidneys pie at lunch. That’s strange.”

Still munching, Blore answers with resentment: “He must have kept them for himself, the selfish rat.”

Of course, it doesn’t occur to anyone that the truth behind those gory meals is much more prosaic. Rogers is working alone in the kitchen and he simply has had no time to go and cut more wood for the stove, so he tries to use the fire as little as he can get away with. Unfortunately for him, he decides to take care of the wood before going to bed. Death is waiting for him and he falls victim both to his devotion to work and to the killer’s sharpened axe.

***

The wee hours of the morning slowly lighten up Philip’s bedroom. He doesn’t sleep. Once again, he’s failed to sneak in Vera’s room with her and she didn’t hear his discreet knocking afterwards. The cute little kitty must sleep like the dead, really.

As a result, he’s spent the night sitting on an armchair in his room, gun close at hand, in case their invisible host decided to grace him with one of his deadly surprise visit. After a few minutes of waiting, he’s also decided to open half the buttons of his shirt, in case the lovely Miss Claythorne woke up and came looking for entertaining company. Philip likes to be ready for any occasion.

It’s not the first time he’s been in such a tight spot. In fact, his life has been filled with them. He smirks as he remembers the last words he exchanged with the general: indeed, he’s never been a man for calm. He’s always thrived on explosive situations, on playing with fire with nimble fingers, always too quick and slippery to get burnt. The unknown and its dark promises of danger have attracted him from as far as he can remember, giving him a rush of power and fearlessness. But sometimes danger brings unexpected pleasures too.

The idea makes him think again about the attractive brunette lying in her lonely bed on the other side of the hallway. There is an alluring darkness in her, simmering just under the appearance of the quiet secretary. She’s full of lies… He can’t wait to unravel her mysteries just as much as he’s impatient to strip her curvy figure of those constraining and awfully formal clothes. Tweed is not for her: he’d much prefer black lace setting off her pale skin… He keeps grinning as, not for the first time that night, his imagination wanders in quite graphic directions which would better not be disclosed in too much detail.

Suddenly, the calm of the early morning is shattered: someone is yelling and banging the gong at the bottom of the stairs. In one catlike leap, Philip is on his feet. He realizes immediately how weird he would look to the others, being fully dressed so early. If something has happened to one of them -as the shrieks coming from the ground floor indicate- he would become the first suspect.

Quickly, he discards his shirt and pants and slips in his pajamas, tying his robe hastily. He then gets out of the room… before rushing back in not two seconds later: in one swift move, he gets rid of his top again. It’s too good an occasion not to let his sweet little mouse have a glimpse of what she missed last night. As he exits the room again and runs downstairs, his state of undress proudly displays a good chunk of his manly chest. A nest of soft black curls peeks naughtily from the V of his largely open dressing gown –the V of Vera and of Victory, he thinks, grinning to himself…

 

The spectacle that awaits him in the cellar would be upsetting for a lesser man. The unfortunate Rogers has been chopped to bits. There is a large pool of blood, already clotting, seeping from his opened middle.

Vera is retching in a corner near the door.

Lombard gets closer to the corpse. The man has literally been sliced in half.

 “Careful, Judge, you’re about to step on a flake of gut.

\- Oh, my! Thank you, Lombard. It’s the only pair of slippers that I’ve brought, you see.

\-  Actually, I think that’s a fragment of the wall of his small intestine. You can clearly see part of the mucosal epithelium which gives the thing a velvety appearance.” Armstrong remarks, after lifting his head from his close examination of Rogers’ severed abdomen.

Vera retches louder.

Armstrong’s frenzy at finding the body is fading as his professional instincts are taking charge. He so missed being a surgeon. Really, why didn’t he think of turning to forensics instead of holing himself up with those manic females? Even if he was drunk as a giddy skunk, his already dead patients would not complain!

While the good doctor is contemplating this promising change of career, Wargrave and Lombard have convinced the shocked women to go back upstairs. Then, the latter sets to collect Rogers’ spread remains with Blore. He thinks sadly that he should have kept the pajamas top on after all…

***

While the more action-oriented members of their party are taking care of the body, the others hold an impromptu meeting in one of the sitting rooms. Armstrong’s verdict is that Rogers has been dead for hours.

“He’s been killed either very late last night or very early this morning. I cannot be more precise in those conditions: I don’t have any material with me for a complete autopsy.

\- It means that anyone could have sneaked off in the night and killed him.” Wargrave’s face is grim. Things are not looking good for them.

“Indeed. It doesn’t give us any clues in terms of possible alibis, since everybody has slept alone…” Vera points out. Miss Brent snorts pointedly. She isn’t fooled by the young secretary’s denial about sharing a bed with a certain someone last night… Ah! She’s seen how she looked at him, shameful wanton girl that she is.

The women are finally alone. The always efficient spinster busies herself by making plans for lunch because, as she explains, domestic tasks are soothing and they all need a measure of normalcy. Vera half agrees with her. She doesn’t care for eating right now, but the truth is that she prefers to stay with the judgmental lady instead of having to endure the men’s harder stares.

She can feel that Armstrong and Blore don’t trust her. And she has trouble reading what’s going on behind the judge’s careful poker face. The overly promiscuous Lombard doesn’t count: obviously, he’s more interested in what kind of underwear she’s wearing under her clothes than in what murderous project might or might not be lurking in her mind. She even caught him grinning and waving at her cheerfully while he was hauling the corpse in a sheet up the stairs with Blore’s help. The hopeless idiot.

But, before long, the bold assassin strikes again. Vera goes to the kitchen to check on what they may cook and she comes back in the sitting room only to find her companion murdered…

The gong is the fastest way to make everyone gather. Vera feels eerily calm now. The calculated way the killer chose to dispatch Miss Brent makes her consider situation like a puzzle. It puts a distant look on her face, even after the men have carried the fresh corpse in the room that Miss Brent has occupied.

Vera stares at the body on the bed and realizes she’s the only woman left on the island. A shiver runs down her spine. As she looks up, she can see Blore and Lombard, still in their blood stained night clothes. Lombard has lit a cigarette and his face, surrounded by smoke, is unreadable.

Blore gazes at the lump under the sheet. His low voice cuts through the oppressing silence, contemplative and mournful: “She said that I was a good boy and that she was making me a mushroom omelet. This is too bad… Why couldn’t they have waited after lunch to kill her?

\- Don’t tell me you’re hungry?” Vera can’t believe her ears. His lack of sensibility is shocking.

“Why, yes, I’m hungry! I-I spent the morning –the whole morning!- dragging corpses around, clearing guts! Without so much as a cup of tea for breakfast!” Getting teary-eyed, he adds: “I could only think about bacon the whole time! About sausages! And about those kidneys that Rogers has hidden! I can’t get over it: why do they have to kill first the few people who can cook? This is psychological torture! And you- don’t go implying-”

He’s working himself into a rage now and anger suddenly replaces the vulnerability in his tone: “I’ve got nothing to do with this! I AM hungry, so what, miss Claythorne? It doesn’t prove anything! Not. A. Single. Thing! You’re pretending to be so proper and- You look at me like I am-”

Philip’s voice cuts in, low but firm: “Calm. Down.” It looks like he’s soothing a frightened wild animal. He’s taken his cigarette from his lips and, for a moment, Blore seems almost hypnotized by the movement, before snapping out of it:

“You’ve got some nerve, girl. You’ve got some front. I’m going to get dressed now.”

Vera is stunned by the violence of the outburst. Lombard ogles her briefly, then he states in the same quiet voice: “Don’t go downstairs on your own. Not with those two.

\- You mean Wargrave and Armstrong?”

Philip nods. In the back of his mind, he’s filing away the interesting notion that she didn’t mention Blore, even though she’s just argued with him. The woman is definitely smart. He doesn’t think that Tubs has the brains to carry such a daring plan out. Armstrong or Wargrave, on the other hand…

Nothing on his face betrays his thoughts: even though his mind is analyzing the situation, his demeanor stays composed and unemotional, with only his quick eyes revealing that he’s staying alert and ready to leap at the nearest enemy.

It suddenly strikes Vera how very handsome the man is, still and in control like that. She hasn’t really looked at him since their appalling encounter in the train and now, she’s taking it all in for the first time: the strong body, the beautiful features, the sharp and knowing eyes. His forearms are tainted with dried blood but he looks as confident as ever, smoking his cigarette. He’s manly and reassuring and he gives off the kind of comfort she would need if she started to let her fear bubble to the surface. He would shield her from the others. His protectiveness stirs something deep inside her and, for the briefest of moments, she feels so drawn to him…

Of course, the moron has to shatter the atmosphere by adding with a cheeky grin: “You’d also better not stay alone tonight either: you can sleep in my room. It’s a little cold in there and I forgot to ask Rogers for an extra blanket, but don’t worry, my sweet pumpkin, I know some very effective ways to keep you warm… We’ll be heated and sweaty in no time! I’m going to get your pillow already!”

He hurries out of the room with a wink. Vera sighs. The conviction that she’s surrounded by idiots is getting stronger by the minute. And this impression doesn’t change when she hears him yelling from his bedroom next door a few moments later. Apparently, the leering fool has managed to get himself robbed of his gun.

 

***

As the men are arguing in the hall, Vera sits on the stairs. She’s wary: things are getting worst with every passing second. This is a nightmare. Someone is offing them all one by one from the shadows and the best weapon they had at their disposal is now in the hands of their enemy.

Vera lifts her head and looks at her companions and potential adversaries. The poisonous atmosphere has come to an impasse and the enraged men are unconsciously looking for a way to let some steam off. Blore and Lombard seem on the verge of throwing punches at each other instead of mere insults and accusations.

She sighs. She needs a distraction. An emotional release… Her thoughts wander again to Hugo with regret. Her sweet Hugo. He seemed like an eager puppy when they made love on that beach. He was so gentle back then. So fervent. So clumsy too. She had gotten sand in some very uncomfortable places. Spending the next morning with little Cyril and his chatterbox of a mother was a challenge as she had to pretend to smile and have fun when what she really wanted to do was scratch some unmentionable spots…

But Hugo is history, she thinks with resolution. If things were different, maybe she’d try her hand at flirting again. Nothing serious, just a harmless flirtation to get her mind off the horror surrounding her. Unfortunately, her options are very limited as it is. Judge Wargrave would be the safest choice if he wasn’t so old: such a polite gentleman. And a great catch too. Too bad he isn’t sixty years younger… As for the others... From a female point of view, Armstrong is a hysterical mess of potential domestic abuse. And she isn’t into mustached men. Blore is out for the same reason. And because he is a complete idiot too, she amends.

Her eyes alight on Lombard. He is a moron. Annoying. Terrible at flirting and at leaving her alone. On the other hand, he really cuts a very fine figure in that robe… His lower back dips and curves into a nice rounded rear. As he is grumbling and pacing, she stares at those firm appetizing mounts. Earlier, she was only soothed by his assurance, but now anger reveals something darker in his demeanor that catches Vera’s attention and gets under her skin.

There is something dangerous, almost feline in him. The way he moves -assured and smooth, but hinting at force and quickness if the situation requires it- sends her imagination reeling again in spite of herself. Now she can picture him in a tropical forest somewhere, his naked torso glittering with sweat as he’s clearing a path through the vegetation, machete in hand… Drops of water cascading down his rippled muscles like a million shards of crystal as he shakes his head under a powerful waterfall, standing right under the force of the spray; the shallow blue-green transparence doing little to conceal his nudity as he slowly walks out, straight towards her, looking almost predatory… His dark eyes holding sinful promises as he half rises from his hammock later at night, inviting her to join him… Vera discreetly fans herself. My my, it’s getting hot in this stairway…

But she shakes her head with decision. This is insane. She really shouldn’t have read that cheap romance novel that she confiscated from her students! Lombard is nothing like the dashing hero from “Miss Primproper and the Mysterious Adventurer” and she will never have an affair, torrid or otherwise, with him. She won’t join him in his room tonight, no matter how frightened she is… or how intrigued she becomes by the sensual movements that the blasting idiot keeps displaying.

Echoing her thoughts, Lombard is hissing at Blore: “You really are a first class, five-star, solid gold fucking moron!” The muscled arms attached to that delectable butt are almost pinning the former policeman to the wall. Guiltily, Vera snaps back to attention again when Wargrave’s voice cuts calmly “Gentlemen, please! The lady…”

But the old man’s rebuttal does little to calm the two angered men. Philip is still convinced that Blore has taken his gun. His steps draw smaller and smaller circles around his antagonist, while the latter accuses him of plotting an overly complicated scheme of showing them the gun before feigning to have it stolen from him… Vera has a sneaking suspicion that Blore’s reports must have made for some torturous reading material back in his days in the force.

Fortunately, the growing tension comes to a sudden relief when Blore confides the details of his bowel disorders. Whereas Lombard is a little taken aback, Vera and Armstrong start snickering uncontrollably. As the giggling slowly recedes, Vera comes to realize that, if not for their less than stellar pasts and the fact that a mad serial murderer is hiding among them, she could have almost enjoyed their company at that moment. Those grown men remind her of her days as a governess: she could envision them as a group of wild kids she would have had to watch during a field trip, always ready for a fight or whining.

Wargrave unknowingly completes the impression by stating in the stern voice of a teacher addressing unruly children: “So we’re back to square one. No gun, no master key, no prime suspect. We’re going to have to search all the rooms, clothes included. Gentlemen, please find something to cover your modesty.

\- We’re starting with you, Tubs.” Philip says through gritted teeth. He will find his gun even if he has to search through the dirty underwear and bounce on the mattress of every one of those three filthy idiots.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could things have gone differently between Vera and Philip? A humorous take on the events taking place in BBC ATTWN, primarily based on Lombard’s subtle firtling techniques in canon. Crack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This chapter is shorter, sorry! I didn't have much time to write... But my friend (who requested the story) also says that it contains her favorite scene so far, so I hope you will enjoy it anyway! :)

Philip shakes viciously Armstrong’s sheets. As the doctor throws him a disbelieving and incensed look, Lombard can’t help by add insolently: “I’m just being thorough”.

Armstrong is fuming. First the judge insisted that that crazy girl help them go through their personal belongings, in spite of the whole thing reeking of shocking impropriety. When the physician started protesting, the old man simply argued that leaving her alone in the house would only give her further opportunity to hide the gun out of their sight. Armstrong is highly uncomfortable with the situation. He doesn’t like to stand in a flimsy towel in front of that woman. It’s embarrassing. And, not an hour ago, he’s seen her staring into space and smiling to herself with a dreamy expression while she was sitting in the stairs. He can almost swear she was fanning herself and drooling a little at some point… For goodness’ sake, he’s a highly esteemed professional, he can tell when someone’s completely bananas!

And to add insult to injury, that annoying Lombard is provoking him now. Armstrong grinds his teeth: with Rogers and his wife gone, he will have to make his bed himself. He just _hates_ it when his sheets are not perfectly tucked in. No doubt he will have some awful wrinkle marks on his cheek tomorrow! He’d so love to punch Lombard in the face right now… to slap the sarcastic smirk from his lips with his fist... Oh, the man is lucky he looks stronger than him!

On the other side of the bedroom, his foe’s feeling frustrated and angry. He couldn’t find his gun, either in Tubs’ room or in Armstrong’s. This is getting ridiculous. He gets the feeling someone is toying with him and the idea that he’s being mocked makes him grow even more irritated.

When the last sock has been shaken from the doctor’s drawers and angrily thrown to the floor, both Blore and the physician turn towards him and snarl in almost perfect chorus: “Your turn, Lombard!” It looks like those two don’t fully appreciate his personal brand of charm.

The judge jovially pushes him towards the door, in pretty much the fashion one would herd an unwilling sheep towards the slaughterhouse. They seem all too happy to take him down a peg or two.

But Philip is not giving them that satisfaction. Without even bothering to fully close his door, he starts stripping. He’s down to his underwear in seconds and he throws the other men a withering glance when the last item of cloth hits the floor. He then slowly and calmly wraps himself up in a nearby towel.

He’s not even out the door when they jump at his things and start vandalizing the room, all the while pretending that they’re looking for the missing gun and key. Like it would be plausible that he’s hidden either inside the pajamas that Tubs is happily shredding to pieces! Philip’s face remains haughtily impassive. It doesn’t matter anyway, he likes to sleep in the nude … which of course reminds him of the cute little lamb standing near the door. He turns a pensive gaze towards her to try to assess her reaction.

Miss Claythorne is the last to step into the bedroom. She’s feeling a little hesitant but hides it rather well. Unfortunately Lady Luck is not on her side when she chooses where to begin... The first drawer she starts searching through proves to be full of undergarments. Trying to conceal her blush with resolution, she buries her hands in a mess of boxer shorts, making an effort to focus on how chaotically the man has thrown everything in. He’s probably emptied his suitcase in there by the handful without bothering to arrange anything, she thinks with a huff. Filling away that interesting insight, Vera then makes the fatal mistake of looking at him for the first time since entering the lion’s den.

Her eyes immediately fall to the large expanse of his chest. The towel has been tied casually very low on his hips, displaying the wonders of his upper body to her roaming and slightly widened eyes. She gulps as she stares at the bulging biceps and the powerful pectoral muscles. His slightly tanned skin is the color of old ivory, making him look like ancient artwork half wrapped in a fluffy cloth.

“My sweet goodness! He looks like one of those statues in museums… I never thought I’d say that, but he’s even better than Hugo… Oh, dear Lord, please, please don’t let him see me ogling him…”

Unfortunately for the blushing young woman, Philip has caught her wandering gaze before she could hastily look away. He’s immediately perked up and his burning eyes follow her movements. She has his full attention now. He’s so intensely focused that he doesn’t pay heed to Armstrong gleefully kicking his empty suitcase while growling “I’m just being thorough, you jackass!”

Vera realizes pretty fast that he’s caught on her interested glance. Every time she chances a look towards him, he’s changed position, adopting exaggerated attitudes, obviously calculated to enhance his finely sculptured musculature. The first time he was folding his strong arms over his chest, now he’s leaning against the door while twisting his body to show off his powerful ribs and toned stomach.

Vera thinks: “Soon, one of the other men is surely going to wonder why he- he’s lifting his arms behind his head to make his- his _wonderful six-pack_ bulge...  Man, this is so embarrassing… I’m never going to live it down. Why can’t he just take the hint and act as if he hadn’t noticed? If he starts mocking me, I think I’m going to die. Owen won’t even have to try to kill me, I’ll just die of shame right here and now, with my hands full of this idiot's underwear!”

When he starts winking and opening his mouth to say something probably ridiculously outrageous, she can’t take it anymore. She squeals “Let’s go to my room! I- I mean, let’s go look in my bedroom now! There’s nothing in here! Nothing!”

The men are surprised but they agree. After a last kick into a pile of unfolded suits, Blore follows her. Philip steps aside to let her pass but when she walks by him, he sends her a smug leer. She only frowns angrily and sticks her tongue at the infuriating man. She’s lucky nobody else caught on what has transpired between them.

Back in the safe haven of her room, Vera breathes in and tries to calm her pounding heart. It’s time to get changed. She unfolds her red bathing suit and looks at it, letting thoughts she’d rather forget overwhelm her.

She chose the cloth because the color and the cuts on the side gave her a daring look, while staying modest. She can remember that Hugo had complimented her one day about it… He even started tickling her exposed ribs tenderly, until she hit him straight in the face with her elbow as she was trying to escape, howling with laugher… If only things had gone differently… The last time she wore that cloth was the day the child drowned. She had sworn she wouldn’t put it on again, but the fact remains that money is tight and that buying a new suit is an unnecessary expense.

Steeling herself, Vera wraps her body in a dressing gown too. The more layers she can put between her and the others, the better. Especially when it involves that dangerously sexy moron… Finally, she's ready to get out.

Blore and Armstrong enter the room and start rummaging under Wargrave’s supervision. She waits outside, not wanting to see their hands on her lingerie, but close enough to hear their voices.

Armstrong grumbles “Why isn’t that sleazy Lombard helping us?

\- Blore and I thought it would be a good idea to keep you two apart. We don’t need a brawl right now, there are better things to do” answers the judge.

“Ah, you know I can smack his stupid grubby nose to the ground if he doesn’t keep his big mouth shut!” brags the doctor.

“No. What we know is that he’d probably swipe the floorboards with your moustache, Armstrong. Just face it, he’s fitter than you or me, or I’d have already beaten him up. He’s one of the more galling men I’ve ever met. Actually I think he only ran back from Africa because all the dudes over there must have dreamed of mauling him to death with wooden spears, or tribal totems, or something… God knows I wouldn’t blame them. The man would make a saint turn rabid.”

Vera can hear the two others mumbling in agreement. So far, the single thing that everyone on the island has managed to see eye to eye on is that Lombard is annoying...

A rustle behind her in the hallway startles her out of her contemplation. She looks up and, for the second time in one hour, her eyes widen like saucers. She looks like a deer in headlights as a still topless Lombard, as feline and confident as ever, is slowly making his way towards her, his eyes staring at her face with sensual intensity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to casstayinmyass and to the anonymous readers who left kudos! It's very much appreciated! :D
> 
> A quick warning: this is probably the silliest version of the towel scene you've read so far, lol! Philip is trying his hardest to flirt, Vera may still be reluctant, and we're starting to deviate more firmly from canon (in case the outrageous lines and previous little changes weren't obvious enough, lol)! So buckle up, this is a bumpy ride to silliness! :D
> 
> Also I realized I forgot to put a disclaimer, so I'll do it now: And Then There Were None - the book or the very enjoyable BBC TV show- doesn't belong to me, this story is fan made for entertaining purposes and to elicit a giggle or two among fellow admirers of Agatha Christie's intelligent works! :)

Vera gulps audibly. Her throat feels very dry. She’s desperately trying not to gawk at Philip but her eyes stay glued to his half-naked body in spite of her best efforts to look at some other point, anywhere else really but at the shapely torso.

 “It’s useless…” she thinks. “I must look like a boiled lobster with all the blushing…”

Indeed, Lombard is staring at her as if she was stuffed in one of those delicious lobster soufflés that he savored during their first evening in the mansion. A thousand thoughts are swirling in her mind... The teasing smirk back in his room was bad enough, but then the others protected her from the gorgeous moron’s extreme boldness. Now, she’s trapped in the empty hallway, between the man who’s almost stalking her and the hostile trio in her room going though her things. They’ve both been banished out of the bedroom for different reasons, but she never thought he would come to seek her out… And why hasn’t he put his robe on, like the others did? The idiot is obviously enjoying the attention far too much, preening under her admiration, his eyes glinting with sinful possibilities. His lean body is ready to pounce if she makes the slightest move –to escape him or to give in, she’s not really sure.

Overall, Vera feels irritated and helpless, uncertain of what may happen and how she should react. She only knows that she’s far too aware of him to ignore his attempts any longer. Feeling so powerless in front of someone she’s considered an obnoxious goof from the very first second he opened his mouth is terribly grating. And of course, she refuses to admit, even to herself, that she is playing a part in the seduction he’s spinning over her. She’s yielding to him and they both know it. Her silent staring speaks louder than any of her previous snubs, not that she wouldn’t deny it with her last breath. And she’s not ready to accept either the incredibly stimulating contradiction between the impulse to distance herself and the undeniable pull she feels towards him.

At this moment, under all her layers of lies and self-deceptions, in the deepest part of her heart, she can almost believe that anything –anything exciting and dangerous and breathtaking- can happen in that badly lit hallway. This stunning man suddenly represents so many unvoiced possibilities: a lover and an ally, a chance at surviving and, maybe, maybe, at having a more satisfying life again … In the half-light, his skin looks fairer, like a beam of hope in the gloomy place she finds herself trapped in. She’s feeling even hotter now: he is the one unclothed, but she feels he can really see her, in a way no one ever could before, as if he only had to stretch his arm and touch her soul though her blushing skin, her heated flesh… She fights the urge to fan herself.

On the opposite side of their staring contest, Philip is figuring out whether his strategy is working. He sure hopes it will be worth it, because he can feel a chilling draught sneaking up on him: if the woman doesn’t hurry up, he’s going to catch his death parading almost in the buff. If she notices that his knees are drumming a Samba with the shuddering, he hopes that she’ll think it’s from burning lust and not from the cold...

Ever the man for taking action, he’s even devised a subtle but effective trick (if he may say so himself) to make sure she won’t look away. His thumb is discreetly hooked in the edge of the towel: the gesture looks natural, but he’s actually ever so slowly lowering it over his hip. He can feel Vera’s gleaming eyes following the deliberate progression, gliding from his strong shoulders and sculpted pecs to his flat stomach. He can’t help grinning when she lingers at the slight indentation close to his hipbone that enlightens the beginning of his pelvis. She looks almost hypnotized by the line of dark hair leading to the mysteries hidden under the gradually descending fabric… “Yes, keep looking, my little mouse and give your cat something to fest upon too” he thinks lewdly.  

Yet, underneath the mutual physical attraction, he too can recognize something deeper. His instinct accepts that it’s the pull towards a similar nature, towards someone like him –wild, untamable. Someone who lives by her own rules and slips though the limitations of what society expects of her. And he finds the notion incredibly arousing. He smirks wider: he knows that he has her enthralled and completely under his spell now. Oh, she’s so going to open her door for him tonight. This time, he’s sure she won’t go to sleep without waiting first for his manly arms to snuggle into…

The moment is so intense that she doesn’t even hear Blore commenting from her bedroom: “Oh, this negligee is sumptuous! Why can’t we men wear this kind of silky little things? That screeching bitch sure has great taste…

\- You know, I had a client once, who was always dressing in only panties just like these ones in your hands, judge. Terrible thing for the family. The treatment was a bumpy ride, but she had the busiest social life, with so many male friends…” Wargrave shushes them, but the two people alone in the corridor don’t pay them any heed.

Vera tries harder to quell her basest instincts –the ones that urge her to forget about the others standing only a few feet away, about the murderer on the loose and his victims already rooting behind closed doors, to throw caution to the wind and tackle the man against the wall, shred that damned towel and… Vera closes her eyes: obviously, she’s not trying hard enough yet. Finally, she manages to snap out of her licentious trance. Decency has won out. The situation is too volatile as it is without adding a steamy affair to her predicament. She needs to stay in control.

Unfortunately, fate chooses precisely that moment to have a good laugh at her efforts. Her respite turns to horror as her wristwatch unexpectedly gets caught in the belt of her dressing gown: a slight tug is enough to untie the cloth…and a very delighted Philip is greeted by a particularly interesting view of her bathing suit. Of course, his gaze goes straight to her cleavage, eager and quick. He’s practically salivating, a wolfish leer on his face. Vera feels like a vulnerable Little Red Ridding Hood, about to get devoured whole in her thin crimson suit…

She closes the gown as fast as she can, frantically trying to hide her chest from the intensity of his stare. She’s shaking with fury. 

“Well, well, Vera…” he drawls seductively, still staring at her breasts, now modestly covered by the material and by her crossed arms.

-Miss Claythorne! It’s Miss Claythorne, Mr Lombard!” she hisses at him, like a snake ready to strike. He’s so lucky she hasn’t found the gun yet or their doomed island would be short of one suspect…

“Philip”, the moron corrects with a wink. Vera breaths in, ready to lash at him, but she’s rendered speechless again...

Lombard has been continually lowering the towel and the knot has suddenly come undone. The garment is slipping to the ground. Her eyes widen again as she feels a new wave of warmth engulfing her cheeks… Someone up there must be feeling very naughty today.

He catches the material before it hits the floor but Vera has had plenty of time to see what can’t be unseen. The vision of his dramatically exposed maleness is now imprinted behind her closed eyelids.

Philip just shrugs and smiles at her, a little sheepish but not really mortified. He’s still trying to evaluate if the pretty brunette is aroused by the unexpected sight or rather embarrassed. Maybe he won’t have to wait for tonight to make a move, she seems responsive enough under her mock shyness… She’s quite cute actually, acting all coy when she’s just been ogling him without restrain! His wicked little kitten… 

As the daring adventurer is ready to take a step forward, the door of the bedroom opens wider. The judge’s voice is booming in the poorly lit space: “we’re going to search the rest of the house.”

His shrewd eyes take in the scene before him: Vera’s turned back, Philip’s annoyed glance, the nervous clutching at skimpy clothes… He doesn’t say a word.

Armstrong comes up behind the old man, following him like a lost puppy. He too can perceive the overall guilty vibe that emanates from the woman’s attitude. His expression turns suspicious. Could they have been… could they have been hiding the gun in the dressing gown? or in the towel? He’s seething with the impulse to shake Lombard and make him release the questionable material, but one thought stops him dead on his tracks. He really doesn’t want to see the man naked again. The sight was disgusting enough the first time around. He wants to have some appetite left for dinner, after all.

 

***

Later, after a fruitless search through the house, everyone has drawn back to their rooms to get dressed.  As soon as Vera is alone, she begins to put her clothes on again with a thankful sigh. What a terrible day… A discreet knocking makes her look up. She gets closer to the door and asks, worried:

“Who’s here?

-Kitty, it’s me. Let me in. Quick.” Lombard’s voice is low and urgent.

Vera knows it’s dangerous to be alone with one of the men. Without Philip’s enticing body to distract her, a chilling thought crosses her mind: any of them can be the killer. She’d be helpless if he decided to attack her while the others are away. She knows he’s stronger than her and dangerous. And maybe he’s armed… But, strangely enough, deep down, she trusts him. She doesn’t believe he’s come to hurt her. All those cunning sneaky murders don’t fit his shockingly straightforward personality… and he’s been protective towards her so far, she reflects.  Again, the hope of finding an ally is stronger and she takes a decision.

As the door cracks open, she can get a glimpse of the muscles of his torso.

“You’re not dressed up yet? Did something happen? Has someone…

-No, everything is fine so far. Let me in.

-Why are you here? Did you see something? Owen? Do you know…

\- No. Kitty, we don’t have much time. Armstrong is getting dressed and he’s so fussy over it that it’s going to take a while. I’ve distracted Tubs by putting some tinned meat near his door: that will stop him when he’ll be heading out. And the old fox won’t tell on us, even if he suspects what we’re doing…”

Vera’s eyes are reduced to slits. The insufferable man. She hisses: “Mr Lombard, why have come to my room?

-What do you think? I believe we both need a release after all that stress… The fear… the tension… the bathing suit…” Vera’s color matches said garment. She’s torn between shame and anger – and she definitely won’t acknowledge the bashful glimmer of excitement that tries to make its way in the jumbled combo of her feelings.

“I am _not_ getting in bed with you.

-No problem, my sweet lamb. That door of yours looks sturdy enough to support our combined weights. You sure know how to keep things interesting…

\- Mr Lombard! Look, you’ve been –somewhat- helpful and all, but I’ll never sleep with you. Do you understand? Never ever. I’d rather sleep with a wild boar. Or a raccoon. Or-or a polar bear…

\- Oh, okay… I get it.” Philip’s eye are wide open, his features once again unreadable. “You mean role playing, right? You little minx! I knew you’d be a real vamp under all that prudish secretary stuff! Wait here, kitty, I’ve seen a bear skin somewhere downstairs! Wait for me, my little jar of honey, your strong bear is coming soon to take you between his big paws and lick you all over!” He starts running towards the stairs before she can stop him. She closes her door with a huff.

Once in the sitting room, he starts dragging the heavy white fur towards the stairs when a clicking sound stops him in his tracks. He looks down and finds the gun and the master key at his feet on the floor.

“Well, this is unexpected” thinks the ever audacious fortune-hunter. “It looks like I’ve just been handed a pair of aces… But what shall I do now?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the two anonymous readers who left kudos! You guys are great!!!! Thank you very much!!!!! :D  
> As a gift for your kind reception, here is a little game to liven things up! So, let's do a bit of interactive reading: there are two (very obvious) allusions to Agatha Christie's other works and/or adaptations sneakily slipped in this chapter. Can you spot them and guess which work they refer to? The answer is at the end of the chapter! ;) 
> 
> By the way, I still own nothing but a deplorable taste for absurd humor... 
> 
> Now without further ado, here is the next chapter! Will Philip's plans of wooing the squeamish Vera work this time around? Will her sanity (and her lacy underwear) survive the whole ordeal? Let's find out! Warning: silliness ahead! ;P

A little while afterwards, the five remaining guests of Mr Owen are numbly staring at the gun. They are seated in the dinning area, the firearm safely lying on the middle of the table. 

“You’ve found the gun,” repeats Blore for the fifth time. 

“For the last time, yes. It’s here, in front of your eyes and it didn’t appear out of thin air, so I must have found it. I’m not a bloody magician. 

-You’ve found it. In the bear’s mouth.” Blore insists.

“Yup. Come on, Tubs, keep up!”

Armstrong butts in: “How come you even thought of checking in there in the first place? And why are you still wearing your towel, Lombard?”

Philip’s eye flicker to Vera, who’s busy not making eye contact by looking at the little soldiers figurines. Someone has playfully placed them in Indian file and it looks like they’re patiently waiting their turn to buy tickets for some grand event. His answer is a low slur: “Deduction, doctor. Smooth and fervent deduction from a deeply penetrating mind… I wanted it –very intensely-, saw it here, spread and waiting for the taking, so I reached out, squeezed its full roundness, grasped it firmly in my hand and…

\- Mr Lombard! Err, I mean, it’s a relief you’ve found the gun! I feel so much safer now!” Vera’s stuttering indicates anything but relief and Armstrong’s expression becomes watchful. He adds:

“And why are you still half-naked? It’s disgusting, Lombard! Get dressed!

\- My brain works better when my body can cool off. It’s a… err, meditation technique I’ve learnt in… Africa. You should see me in a loincloth…” He winks at Vera who looks away again. Her treacherous mind replays scenes of her romance novel fantasy starring Philip-the-sexy-explorer. This time, he’s standing in the middle of some lush vegetation, slowly untying said flimsy material and exposing once more the breathtaking anatomy she knows all too well now to be comfortable with… The doctor’s voice interrupts her daydream just when her imaginary self is already reaching forward with a trembling hand.

“I don’t care, Lombard! Get dressed! It’s revolting! And indecent! Judge, make him get dressed!

\- He can’t make me! What is he going to do? Wrestle me with his scrawny arms and rip the towel from my body? Pine me to the ground with one fist while forcing me into a pair of trousers? Get real, Armstrong! I could take both you and Tubs down without even leaving this chair!

-Oh, you think so, do you? Shameless poseur! Exhibitionist! Blore, come on, we’re going to show him!”

A loud thump cuts him off. Surprised, they all look at Wargrave who’s banging his head against the table repeatedly. 

“Huh, judge? Are you alright?” asks Vera in a worried voice.

The old man stops abruptly and looks up. Four pairs of shocked eyes are staring at him. He stammers: “Why, yes, yes! Of course, Miss Claythorne. Everything is fine. Better than fine, even. Just peachy! It’s just a… relaxation technique I’ve learnt… in law school, you know. All those exams, very stressful… needed a release and all that…” He attempts a shaky smile. 

Armstrong looks intrigued, but the discussion starts again. This time Blore wonders whether Lombard could have been hiding the gun all along once he showed it to them, before pretending to find it again in order to gain their trust. Vera and Philip are just scoffing at the overly complicated theory when another loud bang startles them. This time, it’s Armstrong who’s earnestly knocking his forehead against the immaculate tablecloth.

“Armstrong? What are you doing, you oaf?

\- Don’t talk to me, you lousy flasher! Judge, you’re right, this is so soothing! I feel much relaxed now!”

Everyone ignores him and resumes arguing over the gun. Wargrave examines the physician with a contemplative glance, assessing him. Armstrong grins at him, eager. 

Blore blurts out: “Anyway, Lombard… Who’s going to keep the gun, now? I’m the cop…

\- I think I represent authority here, so naturally…” starts the judge. 

“Don’t even think about it, you guys. The gun is mine, it stays with me. That’s it. 

-Oh, yeah? And you’re not planning to hunt us down like a bunch of helpless rabbits, now, are you? Spear us all one by one like fishes ensnared in a pond?”

Lombard turns a feral smirk to Armstrong: “Don’t worry, doctor, I won’t kill you unless you’re a threat. And even so, I’ll make it painless, I have great aiming skills. 

-How can you say that so easily?” Blore is appalled. 

“Well, Tubs, look closely: I just open my mouth and it comes out. See how it works?

-Enough! Stop that nonsense at once!” Vera intercedes. “You can keep the gun, Mr Lombard. It’s as safe with you as it may be with any of us anyway. We don’t know who the killer is, so there’s always a risk. We’ll just have to watch you more closely, that’s all. Now, let’s talk about something else.

-We could eat something.” Blore suggests hopefully. At Vera’s incredulous glance, he adds: “What? We skipped lunch and I’m hungry! And Armstrong keeps talking about rabbits and fishes… And-and it will lift our spirits!”

Neither the young woman nor Philip comment on the tinned meat the latter left by Blore’s door only a few minutes ago when he was trying to sneak into her room. Vera is still reeling about the incident and Philip doesn’t want to spoil a good trick. Who knows, he may use it again later to get some private time with his wicked girl. It’s really too bad he had to let her down, but he’s willing to make it up to her. He’s spotted a fluffy white wool blanket on Marston’s bed when he helped haul his body up. The poor twit won’t need it anymore and maybe he can convince Vera to play the sheep while he’d be a very hungry wolf…

They follow the rest of the group to the kitchen. Philip stays a few steps behind to try and corner her briefly against a wall, his hands already going to her waist, but she evades him, a low warning on her lips. His saucy little mouse is playing hard to get... He smiles to himself: if she keeps it up, his eagerness is going to be quite noticeable in his current choice of attire… which would in turn garner him more squealing outcries from that squirrelly Armstrong. Funny how the man’s voice gets all strident when he is angry, Lombard muses leisurely while schlepping along.

***

A few minutes later, Vera opens the icebox and starts an unenthusiastic inventory of its contents: “So, there’s an empty plate smeared with blood… And one of those ‘Farley’s Delicious Meat-Pies’. The wrapping is still unopened.” 

A collective groan follows her statement. Armstrong mutters: “Better keep it that way! This stuff is sickening! And I bet good old Farley is making a fortune on his customers’ ineffective taste buds!” 

Blore is busy rummaging through the cupboards while commenting: “An empty plate, huh? I knew that damned Rogers had stolen the kidneys! I bet they were there!” His voice is suddenly laced with betrayal and shock: “I can’t believe it! For God’s sake! Look at this!” He waves a jar at his appalled companions in a dramatic gesture, pretty much like Perseus would brandish the head of Medusa. “Look, this is Roger’s special sauce! It is store bought! The lying cheater! He was just a crook, not a cook!” 

Finally, after much indignant grumbling, he comes up with two new additions to improve their make-do menu: three tiny boxes and a lot of canned tongue (“so tasty! Maybe I should hide some tins in my room for a midnight snack…” thinks the former cop).

Lombard takes the boxes and reads aloud “Fish paste? It’s been years since I have eaten this thing. There’s salmon, shrimp and crab. Anyone has a preference? 

-They all taste the same anyway. I get the feeling that Mrs Rogers must have prepared the most dreadful picnics,” Wargrave opines dejectedly. “I’ll take the canned tongue.

\- Oh, there is some bread left. It’s a little stale, but we could have sandwiches and tea!” Vera’s forced cheeriness makes her sound again like a schoolmistress, out in a particularly ill-prepared field trip with a bunch of sulky kids.

-I’d hate to sound rude, Miss Claythorne, but I won’t eat anything you’ve prepared, that’s for sure! I don’t want some cyanide peppering my slice of bread, thank you very much! Give me some canned tongue too, Blore!” Armstrong looks at her venomously. 

She thinks that, if they truly were her pupils, this one would be the troublemaker she’d order to go sit in the corner… Picturing the grumpy mustached physician in a well-deserved dunce cap brings na evil glint in her eye, that she conceals by busying herself with the bread. Unsurprisingly, Lombard votes for eating her sandwiches too, as the perverted little brown noser that she pegs him for in her imaginary class… He takes the food from her with a grateful smile and pointedly brushes her fingers, with an intense gaze that the shabby crab sandwich certainly doesn’t warrant. Vera blushes.

Armstrong looks at them with distaste. “I don’t know how you can eat that slimy thing. I’ve always thought someone would poison it someday, supposing it should be even considered edible in the first place.

-It has already happened if you must know. This summer exactly, a woman got rid of her fiancé’s sweetheart by spicing her fish paste sandwich with morphine… She’ll be hanged as soon as the trial is done with. It’s just a formality at this point.”

Vera looks at the judge, surprised: “How can you be so sure? If the case is not closed yet, maybe something new will come up. Maybe she’s innocent. That’s the whole thing with trials, right? Everyone is considered innocent until they’re proven guilty?

\- She’s guilty.” The judge stares at her. “She had opportunity and motive, not to mention the wish to kill. There is not a shadow of a doubt in this particular case. And I firmly believe that criminals shall be adequately punished.”

Vera feels a chill creep up her spine at these words. There’s something steely in the old man’s eyes. But soon, her attention shifts to Lombard at her side.

“Oh, passion and fish paste, what an inspiring combination…” Vera ignores the wink directed at her. “But this stuff is not so bad actually. It tastes almost exactly like antelope, you know.” Everyone looks at him in disbelief. The fact that he’s still clad only in his towel while munching, the gun tucked at his waist, obviously doesn’t help them to take that surprising statement at face value. The judge thinks briefly that nobody is ever going to task the man with cooking duty.

Meanwhile, Vera has once again a sudden flash of him in a far-away jungle. This time, they’re sitting near a fire camp at night. The flames are drawing shifting patterns of gold and shadows against his naked skin while he crawls closer, pinning her to the soil and hovering over her. There’s a silent promise of sinful pleasures in his smirk as he’s lowering his powerful torso on hers, his tempting lips coming ever closer… She’s already opening her mouth to taste him, her body arching into his…

From the other side of the table, Armstrong is examining her with scorn: is that woman really fanning herself with her sandwich? While sipping his water, he reflects that he was right not to touch anything she’s prepared. What a crazy weirdo…

***

After eating, Lombard declares that he’s going to his room to get dressed. He’s enjoyed Armstrong’s seething annoyance and Vera’s furtive glances, but he’s really getting cold. The chair felt chilly against his towel-clad butt and they looked indignant when he’s brought up the idea of lighting the big stove to warm the kitchen. Well, it’s not his fault the log he was holding was still stained with Rogers’ blood! It was the only wood left already cut! 

Blore and Armstrong are a little hesitant at first to let him out of their sight, but the judge assures that he should be safe as long as they go singularly or in a group. There’s also a faint unvoiced hope that the man would get himself killed if left alone: getting rid of the annoying idiot would bring a measure of comfort to the others’ minds. 

Miss Claythorne’s eyes unwillingly follow Philip’s retreating derriere as he walks out of the room. They all heave a sigh a relief when he closes the door behind him, for different reasons. 

She gets up and starts washing the dishes with Blore’s help. Armstrong and Wargrave stay seated, their heads drawing closer, ushering ideas and theories. Looking at them, Vera shrugs: men are obviously not smart enough to understand that they’ll only make it out of here alive if they achieve a semblance of group spirit instead of plotting and suspecting each other relentlessly. Now that they’re on their guards, Owen’s strategy is all about dividing and conquering, but she knows the belligerent physician will chew her out if she even mentions it. Her decision is made: she’ll stick with Philip if the others start weaving alliances. And maybe with Blore too, if they manage to make a truce, she thinks as she thanks the detective with a smile.

When Lombard is back, the judge suddenly gets up and states: “I’m going to read.” 

Blore looks up: “really, judge? There’s a crazy killer waiting to chop us to bits, the house is full of corpses and you’re going to read?” He doesn’t specify whether he’s surprised by the composure reflected by the mundane activity or if he’s more shocked at the choice of a pastime, obviously not being an avid reader himself. Now, maybe if the old gentleman had mentioned playing solitaire… Blore thinks he’s seen a deck of cards somewhere… He can make some good money if he can convince Armstrong to play with him: he’s rarely seen someone sporting a worst poker face than the fidgety physician. 

The man is precisely looking at him with nervous eyes. He protests a little too quickly not to earn some raised eyebrows: “reading is very soothing! Leave him alone, Blore!

-Since when do you like books, doctor? You despised them a few hours ago…” Vera is suspicious now. There’s something fishy going on there. And she’s not referring to the lingering aftertaste of the sandwiches. 

“It’s true… Did you even finish reading the poem, Armstrong? Tell us what it is about then…”

Armstrong is unable to maintain eye contact with Lombard. He answers hesitantly: “huh, it’s about… soldiers?”

Sensing his distress, the judge steps up. “Did you not bring any book with you too, Miss Claythorne? I think I’ve seen you thumbing through one when you were sitting in front of me in the train. You seemed completely captivated by the plot and I remember a very intriguing cover. With lots of intertwined limbs and very few clothes…” Wargrave’s eyes are sharper than ever. He knows he’s won the sparring match with the blushing woman, who’s now stuttering under Lombard’s interested glance. Judging by the glint in his eye, the easily distracted male is certainly not planning to suggest that they start a book club. 

Once the judge is gone, the group decides to move to the more comfortable sitting room. Vera is seething with shame and anger. Blore and Armstrong are still snickering at her choice of reading material and Lombard is trying to sit closer to her on the settee. The only individual seat left is the armchair where Miss Brent died and she refuses to use it. 

She gets up and mutters: “I’m going to bed.” Seeing Lombard follow her enthusiastically, she adds pointedly: “singly or in a group, remember? You can watch me go up the stairs”. 

As she walks up the stairs –all the while knowing that Philip’s insistent stare is on her calves- she feels the gloomy atmosphere of the house weighting on her mind. It’s a top-notch modern mansion, but there are so many shadows, so many corners… Maybe her imagination is playing tricks on her, but she can almost make out tiny dark figures from the corner of her eye. In the silence, her steps sound hollow and the intermittent clinging of her wristwatch against the handrail reminds her of the dying laughter of a child, sinister in the oppressing stillness. 

In her haste, she almost trips over the carpet on the landing. She wouldn’t relish getting on all fours on the floor, her nose on the rug and its display of silly looking monkeys and post-cubist trees. It elegantly matches the one in the sitting room, but Vera can only think that the decorator in charge of the house must have had an out-of-control fascination with wildlife judging by this pattern and the outrageous bear skin downstairs… An infatuation that one exasperating adventurer here seems to share… As she resumes walking, the semi-darkness paints fantastical sneers on the monkey’s faces and their hand-woven eyes seem to be following her.

She’s almost trembling when she enters her bedroom, but her uneasiness only increases here. She can smell the sea, feels the air ghosting at her crawling skin like waves… She takes a step towards her bed. The smell is just getting stronger. Her breath hitches… and then she sees it. She screams.

Her last thought before darkness engulfs her like a whirlpool is that maybe she should have considered getting a bedmate indeed. She closes her eyes with the regret of not having snuggled against those smooth pecs…

The others are upstairs in a flash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, have you guys found the cryptic references? Here is the solution! 
> 
> 1) Farley’s meat-pies are a nod to the adaptation of the short story The Dream by the British TV show starring David Suchet (season 1 episode 10). Poirot is disgusted by the pies, but Farley did indeed make a fortune out of them.
> 
> 2) The fish paste is the alleged murder weapon in the novel Sad Cypress. Here too, mot of the comments on the taste match Poirot's opinion and the judge delivers a brief summary of the story. Sad Cypress is actually the book that follows immediately after ATTWN chronologically. I find it intriguing that it focuses on the dangers of a trial with a foregone conclusion based on the apparence of guilt only: it's a complete reverse situation from ATTWN, which uses the idea of people walking free after committing murders. It gives an interesting insight in Wargrave's arrogant desire to be judge, jury and executioner, I think. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big THANK YOU to the anonymous readers who have left kudos (especially to the one who was also the 200th to check that little story! ;) )! Your kindness is very, very much appreciated! Thank you, guys! :D  
> No Agatha Christie-themed game this time, but there's a little reference to the 30's: it's scaly and impossible to miss, lol! And the chapter is extra long to make up for posting so late! :)   
> We're reaching slowly the climax of the story, so I guess there should be maybe 2-3 chapters left, maybe... Good thing for Philip that he's -at looooong last- starting to make some progress with his ill-disposed sweetheart! Warning: silly situations and goofy little "soldiers" ahead!

Sprawled on the hard floor, Vera’s mind is a blur. As she’s slowly regaining consciousness she begins to vaguely make out distant voices. Someone is calling her name in an urgent whisper. The soft murmur suddenly becomes much shriller as the voice owner seems to be involved in an unexpected quarrel, right next to her ear. She winces. Right, she’s on Soldier Island, the place where an argument breaks out every five minutes, as regularly as clockwork.

“What’s that? You’re not coming near her, Armstrong! Vera, honey, wake up! I’ll protect you, but you need to wake up, kitty!” Philip’s voice is getting even closer and unbearably high-pitched. Vera tries to open her eyes, if only to keep him from deafening her, but another voice cuts through her haze.

-For goodness’ sake, it’s _sal volatile_! Smelling salts! I’m a physician, so let me do my work, you useless moron!”

Before she has time to react and tell them she’s already awake, an irritating sensation forces its way inside her nostrils. With a sharp breath and a fit of coughing, Vera’s eyes open wide. She has the fugitive impression of having surfaced after nearly drowning, only to be smacked right on the head with a rubber ring. As soon as the slightly painful irritation wares off, she can smell another powerful odor too. One which reminds her of their late lunch… “Canned tongue”, she thinks with a grimace. The doctor’s had no time to brush his teeth, apparently… 

Now that she’s aware of her surroundings, she can see Armstrong’s worried face, far too close for comfort. She can appreciate that he displays a kind of sympathy to her for the first time, but it doesn’t stop her from recoiling to avoid his foul breath…

“Thanks God, Miss Claythorne. I was afraid you would require mouth-to-mouth…

-No, no! It’s okay, I’m alright! I’m alright!”

Philip frowns. His grip on her upper body intensifies. After a few seconds, given that the physician doesn’t try to stick his grubby lips on his girl, he relaxes. His anxiousness is fading fast though, because his left hand is now slowly drifting towards her butt, trying to cup a cheek without the other’s man notice… She throws him a withering glare, but the coughing doesn’t help her look very threatening, so she just pinches him. Hard. His yelp immediately makes her feel better.

Still a little breathless, she straightens up: “Somebody came into my room… Look at the bed…”

Lombard’s eyes widen. There’s a neon-green strange-looking sentence written on the coverlet: “VERA IS A MILLER”. Squinting, he silently corrects himself, “No, it’s a “killer”, not a “miller”. That makes more sense. My sweet kitten looks far too frail to be working in a mill, of course. Maybe I should start wearing glasses…” Getting closer, he sees that the words are made of slimy stripes. Seaweed. A larger bunch of the stuff has been shoved at the head of the bed, making the whole room smell like the ocean… The result is ghastly, if slightly ridiculous considering the time it took to arrange the display at the risk of getting caught. Vera feels even worse now that she can take in the details.

From the side of the bed, Philip comments: “You know, it’s funny, it looks exactly like a big sea monster has snuck in to throw up…” Unaware of the others’ weirded out looks, he adds pensively: “Now, that makes one wonder: can monsters actually write? I’ve read something in the newspaper about one in a lake in Scotland, but the drawings didn’t show any legs, just those three huge arches of a worm -or a very flexible slug maybe- swimming at the surface, so I doubt it would be the same kind here. Unless the legs were hidden by the water of course, but then…” The imaginative adventurer suddenly realizes that Armstrong and Vera are staring at him with gaping mouths and moves on quickly: “Huh, well, anyway, don’t worry, honey! We’ll just sleep in my room tonight. I’ll keep you safe. And quite warm too.”

The physician is in a more analytical set of mind: “How could they have hidden that much seaweed inside the house? We’ve looked everywhere! And there’s no way someone would have run to the beach, collected an armful of these disgusting things and came back running into the house without any of us noticing! Owen is not a goddamn ghost, for Pete’s sack!”

Vera has a vision of a mischievous little boy sprinting on the beach, but it goes like a flash when Philip answers calmly: “Let’s face it, Armstrong, maybe we just really, really suck at searching. I’m already smart and good-looking, you’re… mustached and a doctor, we can’t have all the good qualities at the same time. Well, kitty, let’s get you ready to move to my room. Pack your things for the night, only your pillow and your toothbrush: no need for your nightgown...”  

She refuses his enticing plans in a flat voice, arguing that she will be fine. She won’t let their unknown murderer bully her. She’s a strong, independent woman who can defend herself. Moreover, when she dressed, she noticed that a pair of lacy panties was missing and she doesn’t want to lose any more underwear. She shudders at the thought that their unknown murderer-turned prankster could be doubling as a perverted panty thief.

Philip doesn’t look particularly disappointed though: he has wrapped the seaweeds into the bedspread, then thrown the whole bunch in a corner. Now, he is sitting on the bed and the slight bouncing hints he’s testing how comfortable the mattress is. She frowns, understanding that he’s simply planning to bunk with her.

When he notices that she’s looking at him, he leans even further backwards on his elbows, his lips stretching into a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat. She can almost imagine twitching ears in his thick black hair and a tail wiggling lazily on the toned thigh he’s moved on the blanket. There’s something animalistic and wildly sensual in him. A shiver courses through her. “He really looks like a big playful panther waiting for me to pet him, right before he pounces on me…” She can picture him grabbing her waist and nibbling at her neck, his teeth digging gently into her flesh. She wouldn’t mind being eaten right now... Sensing her reaction by instinct, Lombard straightens up, his pupils dilating in anticipation.

Vera is beet red. God, this is becoming embarrassing, she doesn’t want Armstrong looking down on her more than he already does... “Oh, who am I kidding, Philip couldn’t have been more obvious if he had sung: “I want to bang Vera” while hitting the gong in the hall! I can count myself lucky he didn’t thought about it first, or he would have even used Owen’s damned recording trick to herald his intentions…” She almost giggles imagining the solemn voice accusing her of starting a “blazing fire in Philip Lombard’s pants” and the peeved look on the other guests’ faces at hearing it. He’s a really a fool, she thinks with a fond smile.

Yet, there’s another reason why she wants to get rid both of him and of the doctor: never before has she had as many men prancing through her room as during this weekend. It rattles her that her bedroom is becoming busier than what she saw of the hall of the Oakbridge station when she got off the train. That obviously needs to stop. She says: “Well, I’m much better now, thank you. You can all go back to-“

Blore barges in her room like he owns the place and interrupts her merrily: “Here you go, Miss Claythorne! You’ll feel better in no time!”

Vera groans. Distracted and mumbling, she takes the glass that Blore has handed her and she’s about to drink when instinct kicks in and she pulls away brutally. There’s a strong smell coming from the beverage. There’s no doubt the man is not giving her a simple brandy, he’s added something to it…

From his sprawled position on the bed, Philip starts laughing. “Good for you, Vera! That’s my girl!”

Blore is taken aback: “What? You think I’ve done something to it? That punch’s all right, I haven’t done anything to it! It’s just good brandy… with whisky, a dash of vodka and, since I couldn’t find any gin in this posh people’s house, I had to do with a lick of sherry, but I trust the taste will mix well…”Lombard just gets up and leaves the room to get a new bottle, all the while chuckling. Blore adds helplessly: “Punch is good for shock. It’s my own special recipe, it’s good stuff, I swear… You sure you don’t want some, Miss Claythorne?”

Vera tells him so in no uncertain terms. She gets up slowly from the hard floorboards, the men not being thoughtful enough to help her. Her back is killing her and she’s sure there is a bruise forming on her stiff backside. She massages it surreptitiously, while muttering under her breath “boors, all of them”.

Meanwhile, Armstrong has approached Blore. “He called her Vera…

-Who?

\- Who do you think I may be talking about? The King? Lombard, obviously! That’s the second time he calls her Vera, Blore! Don’t you get it?

\- Get what? I believe it’s her first name, right?” the man answers, sulkily drinking his punch.

The doctor looks at him with irritation and insists: “Use your brain, Blore! It means that there’s something going on between them! Something-something of an _intimate_ nature…

\- You think? Well, I don’t know, he’s been calling her those awful pet names and making stupid jokes since we got in the boat... It’s just his style. I don’t think it really means anything, except that he’s a blockhead of course.” He adds, with a tinge of regret: “He calls me Tubs too all the time, and I can assure you he hasn’t tried anything with me…” Armstrong doesn’t look convinced, but he’s silenced by Lombard returning. Blore winks at the doctor and adds in a low voice: “And I’m a detective, I’d have noticed if he was trying to make a move on her or something…”

Their eyes flicker pensively to the man who’s exhibiting a bottle with an air of triumph: “Good brandy, sealed and untampered with!” He hands it to the still grumpy woman and tries to sneak his arm around her waist, but she swats him away. Philip whines “But kitty, I got you brandy and you hurt me. Now you have to kiss it better…”

Blore looks at Armstrong again and mutters conspiratorially: “You see? Nothing suspicious here!”

The alcohol burns Vera’s throat and it immediately makes her feel better. When she gives it back, Philip takes a swing too, his smiling eyes never leaving hers. Soon, in spite of her increasingly insistent hints that they should just leave, the others join in the impromptu celebration, all drinking in turns directly from the bottle.

The brandy and the more relaxed atmosphere it brings calm her nerves. She’s glad she’s alive and the men are apparently relieved that she is too, in spite of their misgivings. Reluctantly, she finds it somehow heartwarming, even though Armstrong keeps observing her.

***

A while later, they’re still in her room and she’s fuming.

Lifting his head for another big gulp, Blore looks at the ceiling. He nods to the mysterious hook springing from the middle: “What’s that for?”

Vera groans: the man is supposed to be a trained cop and he’s been looking through the room, how did he miss the very obvious big metallic hook? Philip is right: they really, really suck at searching. She answers regardless: “I don’t know, Mr Blore. I don’t actually live her, I was not privy to the previous owner’s whims, you know… Now if you would be so kind as to leave me alone in _my_ room…

\- A chandelier, maybe, like downstairs?

\- A chandelier in a bedroom? Are you kidding us?” Lombard replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He’s seated on the bed again.

“A hook for hanging a ham? A swing?

\- A swing, really? Shouldn’t there be two hooks for a swing? How could it even work with only one rope?” Armstrong’s face gets redder with each suggestion and he washes the irritation off with a hearty swig at the bottle.

Vera bristles at the mention of ropes and hanging but comments: ‘That’s not the main problem with that theory, doctor. Why would someone put a swing indoors in the first place?

-Okay, I get it, I get it. A punching bag, then?

\- What? Are we playing at riddles now, Mr Blore? Shouldn’t you all get elsewhere instead, like, I don’t know, in your own rooms, maybe?

\- Wait, wait, I know: it’s for knotted rope climbing! We had one of those at the academy!”

Lombard retorts:”A knotted rope, really? Tubs, it’s a bedroom, a _bedroom_! It’s not a pantry or a gym, but a room meant for sleeping… and for some other things…”

Much to Vera’s annoyance, Blore insists while dropping heavily on the bed: “Well, it’s posh people! Come on, they don’t even have gin in the house, how can you expect to be rational? They’d set a gym in a pigsty if the fancy took them!” Guilty, he turns to the seething woman and adds hastily: “Not that I mean that your room is a pigsty, of course. You have great taste and-and very nice lingerie…”

Philip chuckles, bouncing again slightly on the mattress and playing with a pillow: “I’m becoming very fond of you, Tubs. And, regardless of your absurd ramblings, I can agree indeed that this place is very fit for all sorts of physical exercises…

\- You’re an arrogant arsehole, Lombard!” Realizing that the respectable secretary is not one of the guys and that it’s his second blunder in less than one minute, Blore stammers: “Oh! Bloody hell! I’m sorry, Miss Claythorne! I’m a fucking jerkass!”

She smiles: “No, you’re right. He’s an arsehole…” She adds mentally that it’s a very nice arse too as she looks straight into Philip’s eyes... For the first time, there’s a flirty undertone in the rebuff. He good-humouredly joins in the general laugher, delighted. His chances of getting lucky as soon as the two idiots get out look better than ever. This is going to be a very enjoyable night…

But that annoying Armstrong shatters his hopes of them leaving right away: “So, what do we do? I can’t imagine going to sleep right now… What about going back downstairs and having a drink?” He suddenly brightens up and says: “We can have a party! Get some more booze and Marston’s drugs! We will have a blast!”

There’s a calculating twinkle in Blore’s eyes. “Well, we could… Or we can stay here and play cards, maybe. There are four of us and I happen to have found a deck of cards…” He takes them from his pocket with a flourish, catching Lombard’s attention. A discreet nod towards the oblivious doctor settling daintily at the foot of the bed is enough for him to get the plan across. Time to fleece the unsuspecting sucker. Lombard’s smirk turns predatory at the idea of getting some cash before, well, getting some... An awesome night indeed.

Still, Vera intervenes before they can mess her evening -and her bedding- even further. She doesn’t want to be stuck with the moronic trio for hours in one of those pajama parties she’s supposed to bust at her school. “No, no, no! This is my room! I’m sorry, but this is not the local joint to hang out! Now, get out, all of you!” Suddenly, she’s struck by a very disconcerting thought: “Wait, four? How come we’re only four?”

The others just look at her blankly from the bed. Blore is already dealing cards. Philip is sitting crossed-legged and hugging the pillow.

“We’re supposed to be five! Five!!! Where’s the judge?”

The men are up in a second. They all hurry downstairs in a panic.

***

Lombard stops at the door of the small drawing room where Wargrave is supposed to be reading. He takes the gun out and hisses: “You guys wait right here. I’ll go first and check if…”

He’s interrupted by Armstrong who’s rushing past him inside, all the while yelling: “The judge! The judge is dead! He’s been murderer! Shot in the head!”

A few second later, they all stare helplessly at the gore that used to be the old man’s head. The stiff expression left on the pale face, the still bleeding hole and the crimson mess at the back of the head makes for a very uncomfortable spectacle and they all look away. Blore focuses darkly on the flesh splattered on the wall behind the victim, once the brain of a clever man, now only raw chopped meat. He’s getting hungry. He knew he should have taken some canned tongue to go.

Armstrong is already taking his jacket off in haste. Vera snaps: “What are you doing?” It feels good to vent her anger. She quite liked the judge and she grieves the loss: now she’s the only sane person in here, trapped with a crazy killer and two useless idiots, without possibly knowing which is which, given that they all behave like six-years old…

“Well… Errr, his-his head needs to be wrapped… if we’re going to-to move him, you know” the doctor answers fretfully. A tic makes his left eye twitch nervously.

Lombard intercedes: “He’s right. We don’t want his brains spilling out all over the floor. It would be a pain to get off the carpet.” Vera pales noticeably. “But don’t use your jacket, Armstrong, I’ll find something else.”

He jogs out, privately thinking that he was wise to choose an outfit suitable to conceal bloodstains. He can’t image parading in something like the gaudy white silk pajamas Armstrong flashed this morning instead of his trusty blue shirt… And he knows sweet little Vera has noticed that the dark red trousers make his natural endowments quite noticeable… The poor darling looked a little green around the edges, maybe she’d like to snuggle in his comforting manly arms when he gets back? There’s a new spring in his steps as he runs faster.

In the drawing room, Armstrong looks more nervous with every passing second. He swipes his sweaty forehead with the now useless jacket. Vera keeps throwing questions at him like a machine-gun:

“Are you sure he was shot?

-Well, look at him!

-I don’t want to! You sure?

\- Well, there’s a big hole in his head! I don’t want to get ahead of myself with a hasty diagnostic, but I think that’s a very plausible cause of death. His brain leaking off is a pretty big clue, you see!”

Vera is visibly shaken by the nauseating details. She tries valiantly to retort something callous, when she notices Blore at her elbow. He’s handing her a potted fern with a commiserating nod. She raises her eyebrows and he explains with concern: “I couldn’t find a bucket, so if you’re feeling sick…”

She ignores him, but, after a hesitation, takes the plant, feeling queasy indeed. Settling it against her hip, she starts again: “So there must be another gun in the house?

-Not necessarily” Philip intervenes, strolling back into the room. “Look at what I found on the floor.

\- A slingshot!” Blore’s eyes flash with fury. “He didn’t have the gun anymore, so he’s used a bloody slingshot!” His moustache trembles. He gets closer to the corpse, bending and retrieving a huge pebble from the bloody mess. Armstrong shushes him away, oddly protective of the body. “What a hit it must have been to drill a hole through his head! That blasted Owen has no conscience! Look at Wargrave’s feet, he even used one of the poor man’s shoelaces for the string, for God’s sake!”

Lombard only remarks: “Well, that’s unusual indeed…” Lost in his thoughts, he glances at Vera and asks “Why are you holding a plant, honey? It’s a bit soon for the flowers at the grave, you know…” She brutally sets the fern on a nearby table, her queasiness being replaced by the urge to pommel his head with the pot. Chuckling, he hands the cloth he’s slipped under his arm to Armstrong.

The doctor just shrinks away, startled: “What is this thing? Is that-is that _dried blood_ , Lombard?

\- Well, it’s what I used to clean Rogers’ blood and guts. No use wasting another good cloth to do the same work, right?”

Armstrong hisses: “I’m not using this disgusting thing! I’m not putting it on the judge’s face! Have some decency!

-Why? He doesn’t care anymore, Armstrong! He’s dead!”

Finally, after much arguing, Lombard makes another trip out of the room. When he gets back, Armstrong throws a fit again at the dirty kitchen rug that Philip is holding. The other man retorts that he’s not going to spend the day looking for clothes and that the splattered brain stains are already steeping into the carpet. Fuming, the doctor can’t find any more arguments and he can only look with revulsion and remorse at the men hauling the corpse up. Luckily, he doesn’t know that Philip just found the rug on the floor or that poor Mrs Rogers had used it to mop the kitchen…

He doesn’t feel any better when Blore’s grasp slips and the judge’s upper body hits the stairs heavily. The former cops amends: “Don’t look so grim, Armstrong! Lombard is right: the poor old soul doesn’t mind anymore!” He then clumsily slams his charge against the doorway. The physician grits his teeth.

After placing the body in his room, Armstrong lingers suspiciously near the bed, bent over and muttering apologies in a hushed tone to the still covered head. It didn’t cross even his mind to take the kitchen rug off before stretching the white sheet over it.

“Armstrong, are really you tucking the corpse in? Are you afraid he’d take a cold or something?

-I’m just showing respect, you ill-bred oaf! And- and for all we know, you may be the one who did it…

-He’s right! You went back downstairs to get the bottle, Lombard!

\- I wouldn’t have used a slingshot, for Pete’s sake! I am the one with the gun, remember? And you went downstairs too, Tubs, to get that punch! You were away for longer!

-Well, I’m not as quick on my feet as you! And I had to go all the way to the kitchen to get the egg for the punch!”

Vera grimaces in disgust: sherry with raw egg? It’s almost more disgusting than the gore in the drawing-room. Where are potted plants when one needs them, really?

 “And you too, Armstrong, you disappeared for a bit…

\- To fetch my bag so that I could attend to _Vera_!”

Philip is speechless at Armstrong’s casual use of her first name. His eyes are reduced to slits: he knows he’s been subtle yet he didn’t expect a wannabe rival to show up. Maybe he should make his claim more obvious? His hands are already reaching to palm her butt plainly, but she slips away.

She snarls: “I can’t stand it! I’m not just going to sit here and wait to die while you argue yourselves senseless. You’re just a bunch of the most stupid men I’ve ever met! I’m going to fetch myself a drink! Let’s have that party!

-You’re right, honey! At the very least, I want to go with a bang!” The doctor raises his eyebrows petulantly, but Lombard cuts him off: “No, Armstrong, when I say “bang”, I’m not talking about the gun! I’m thinking of another sense of the word, one that most definitely doesn’t involve you…”  He herds the physician down the stairs and makes a bee-line for the still grumpy Vera.

None of them hears a groan of pain and a muffed curse coming from Wargrave’s bedroom. A string of insults followed by an angry hiss of “I’m going to get you all!” comes from under the dirty rug, hastily thrown away…


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! :D  
> A lot of thanks and a virtual hug to the two readers who left kudos! Here's a little game again to show my gratitude: there are three new references to Agatha Christie's stories. Can you spot them? ;)  
> Also, I forgot to give the solution to the cryptic reference to the 30's last time: it was the Loch Ness monster that Philip seems so fond of. Photos of the monsters started to surface in newspapers since 1933, creating huge interest and many articles. I guess Lombard must have read one of those somewhere, lol! 
> 
> Without further ado, here's the new chapter. I warn you: things get a little heated in here... Is Philip finally going to get his sneaky hands under Vera's skirt or is Blore about to set the mansion on fire? I guess you'll have to read on to know... XD

 

Surprisingly, the four remaining guests are very quickly in the mood for having a blast of a party. They all need the distraction after Wargrave’s horrible murder, but none of them will acknowledge that the stern old man’s absence also gives them free reign to caracole into as much horseplay as they want, without the judge ordering them to get down the saddle.

That much becomes clearer when Armstrong stops sulking upon entering the dinning room and turns to the others, grinning. “I’m going to get Marston’s dope! Let’s try that too! We’re going to rough-house that damned manor!”

Lombard’s own smirk turns wolfish: “Is that your medical advice, doctor? Get some drugs to forget everything? Well, I’m game for all kinds of fun tonight, so I’ll go and get it.” Before Armstrong can protest, he adds over his shoulder:  “Singly or in a group, right? I suppose the rule still stands.”

For once, the two other men seem to trust him with something they’re planning to consume. It may be a mistake, though, because Lombard has plans of his own… When he gets into Marston’s room, he makes a beeline to the chest of drawers where they left the dope. Without a moment’s hesitation, he empties the tiny silver box into the drain attached to the little sink that adorns one of the walls. Rummaging through the many boxes and lotions scattered on the top of the furniture, he learns much more about the young man’s personal grooming habits than he would ever have wanted to, but he finally finds what he’s been looking for: a small cardboard box of baking soda… He’s not about to let two aggressive men with an intense disliking for him and Vera get high and out of control, especially when one of them can be a multiple murderer. Nuh-uh, not on his watch! Their flea powder is going to be a little scratchier than they might expect. Hopefully they’re too simpleminded to notice the difference…

Filling the silver box with the white powder, he walks towards the bed. Taking a deep breath, he rolls Marston over, then tugs the blanket from under the already smelling corpse. “Here it is, the fluffy white blanket! Vera, my little lamb, your big wolf is definitely going to eat you tonight! You’ll have your fill of role-playing, my naughty girl…” His grin falters when a loud clinking sound can be heard from the other side of the bed. Philip folds the blanket, straightens the dead body out and goes get a glimpse of what has obviously fallen from under the pillow. He finds a bottle of gin that has rolled under the bed. “Look at what we have here! Double-win!” thinks the adventurer, “the cheating rascal had taken it for himself! Looks like the evening is panning out pretty well…”

After hiding the blanket in his room, he gets downstairs to find that the others have also wandered on a quest to gather supplies. Right now, they’re hunched over a pile of recordings they’ve found near the record player in the basement, in search of good music for some cheery dancing.

“De Profundis… Schubert’s Death and The Maiden… Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre… okay, I think I can detect a theme here…” says Armstrong.

-What’s the name of that recording with all the accusations? Look, it reads Swan Song… Is that supposed to be music for hunting? With horns and all?” wonders Blore.

-Put it on then, it can’t be worse than those. They’re all incredibly depressing… Hopefully there’s some dancing music on it after that dreadful welcome speech! Swan Song is it then!”

In spite of the dark poetic symbolism Owen was obviously aiming for, Vera can’t help but let horrible images flicker through her mind: the picture of their unknown enemy sitting in a corner, a mad grin on his lips, and cleaning a shotgun to kill them all like a bunch of helpless birds is slowly replaced by Blore in a huge white tutu leaping through the room like a graceless ballerina… She honestly can’t decide which one is the more chill-inducing… 

Fortunately, she notices then that Lombard has come back. He’s holding a shinning box in his hand and a bottle is tucked under his arm. He sets both on the tablecloth.

“Why is there a pile of cans of beef tongue again?” he asks, while bending over the table to retrieve a tin that has fallen to the floor.

“What about it? We need a buffet, man! I got a jar of that special sauce too! Too bad there is no bread left, right, Miss Claythorne?”

Vera looks up at Blore’s smiling face. Good thing he hasn’t spotted where her eyes had wandered, because she was precisely looking at a very appetizing pair of buns right now. One clad in enticingly stretched red pants. Philip straightens up.

Blore keeps talking: “How did you know Marston had gin somewhere?  

-Elementary, my dear moron: he had a Maiden’s Blush earlier in the evening. He must have come back to steal the bottle before dinner. Damn ironic too that he had to kick the bucket with a drink!

\- Got what he deserved for keeping the gin to himself! Between this damned thief and Rogers, you’d almost think everyone here is having a plan of their own! Selfish traitors!” mutters Blore angrily. To further his point, he starts gulping down the high-quality beverage directly from the bottle.

This speech seems to waken Armstrong from the thoughtful mood he has dropped into for a few minutes. He claims: “Yes, too bad Marston is not here anymore! It’s going to be a hell of a party! And he roasted us for not looking like “fun-loving house party types”, ha! Look at us now: champagne, music and- well, one more or less pretty young thing! Now the sucker must be in another kind of smoking-hot celebration!” Ignoring Vera’s objection, he raises his bottle for a mock toast and shouts: “To Marston, may he burn in Hell!”

Lombard smiles at the seething young woman, with a glass in each of his hands. “So what kind of cocktail can I get you, kitty? Want to start with a Bosom Caresser? A Hanky-Panky maybe? Or do you prefer to go straight for a Between the Sheets? As you can see, I’m full of ideas to spice your evening…”

Vera doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs the bottle from Blore’s hands and drinks straight from it, all the while looking Lombard in the eyes. His grin intensifies: “My, my, kitty, I didn’t know you liked to suck and swallow! Good to know!” He directs a wink at her that she receives with a stern face, but laughing eyes. Alcohol has quite a way to loosen you up, she thinks, and she’s decided to have her fun tonight. Gone is the straight-laced secretary persona: time to let out the wild, untamable tigress that she’s deep down.

She sits down at the table, surrounded by men and their various means to seek oblivion. The horrible recording reverberates loudly in the background, accusing them of the most terrible crimes. It only makes them laugh hysterically now, so gone are they into their cups. Slowly her attention focuses on Lombard: his lean frame, the nonchalant way he’s slanting against the back of his chair… everything in his attitude has her entranced. Even though he didn’t let her have a taste of the white powder, his mere presence acts like a drug on her system. She literally has to make a mental effort to tear herself from her contemplation when he winks at her and nods towards their companions.

Armstrong is yelling insanities right into Blore’s ear, which only makes the former cop double over in irresistible laugher. She makes out the words over the recording Armstrong is trying hard to synchronize with: “Blood! Bones! Endless parade of shattered, shattered meat! Just standing here, cutting off legs and flesh! Tearing flesh up! And skin and guts and bones everywhere! That’s how you butcher a whole chicken, Blore! Then you make the marinade with a lemon, white wine…

-Yes! Yes! We need some wine!” Blore’s drunken enthusiasm is diverted when he hears his name called by the recorded voice: “Hey! That’s me! That’s me!” Armstrong joins him in his glee: “That’s you, Blore!” They celebrate with loud cheering and by sniffling one more line of powder.

Philip looks at them and laughs along, all the while marveling at Tubs’ stupidity:  how can he not recognize that he’s not stuffing his nostrils with the right substance? Any faith he ever had in the Thin Blue Line is evaporating quickly the more he gets to know the detective. As for Armstrong, he was probably high from the start on adrenaline and whichever liquor he’s kept hidden in his bedroom. All things considered, he is not a very good doctor, Philip muses. No wonder the man killed a patient: he’s been right to keep for himself that he’s caught a slight cold and that his throat is a bit sore, God knows what kind of disgusting snake oil Armstrong would have forced on him.

Now, Blore is busy making a silly-looking party hat with a folded napkin. It looks halfway between a Pierrot’s high conical hat and a female Dutch farmer cap. On the background, the recording has switched to a chirpy tune, perfect for dancing.

“We should make some disguise, like in that “comedy delighted” thing, you know...

\- You mean commedia dell’arte? But shouldn’t we have two more women to make three pairs?” There’s no way she’ll play his Columbine, the man is almost ready to puke over the shoes of whomever he might be partnered with…

Making an effort to remember the basics of the popular theatre, Vera lets her mind wander again: there’s a ridiculous and ignorant Doctor in the bunch of the masked characters that would fit their rude Armstrong to a tee. Even the oversized ruff would match his stuffy and self-important personality. As for Lombard, she doesn’t really know… The cheeky and mischievous Harlequin, maybe? As she turns to him, a play of light falls on his graceful figure, giving briefly the illusion that his blue shirt sports a checkered pattern that her tired eyes imagine strangely colorful, while the upper half of his face is shadowed by his sudden move to get a new bottle. Vera shakes herself out of her reverie and asks him for a refill. Starting to have hallucinations means that she hasn’t drunk enough booze yet, obviously.

At one point, nearly half an hour later, a tipsy Blore tries to convince them to play a game.

“Each of us has to try to catch that tin of tongue with their teeth, like apple bobbing, you know! The winner gets that bottle of champagne!” he shouts before throwing a can into a bucket full of water. Nobody even wonders how he’s managed to snuck it into the room without any of them noticing.

Unfortunately, the metal box sinks straight to the bottom with a muted clank and puts an end to the game before it even begins, much to Blore’s chagrin. The others stare dumbly at his crouched form whining “why won’t it float?” his nose almost in the water. They resort to just drinking and dancing.

Very soon, the party dwindles to a gentler, more intimate atmosphere. Vera finds herself huddled against Philip’s warm chest, while Blore has somehow ended up in Armstrong’s arms. He’s still sporting his ridiculous hat and is asking his partner to “call him Pierrot” in a seductive undertone.

“Blore, stop groping me!

-But you smell so nice, doctor…”

Philip’s hot breath is fanning her cheekbone. His nose nuzzling her lightly gives her the impression that he’s on the verge of kissing her temple, her cheek, her mouth… He whispers in her hair a litany of sweet words, which are all at once cajolery, a prayer and a promise. “You stick with me, Vera… We’re going to get through this. I have no intention of getting killed.” He adds contemplatively “Death is for other people, Vera, not for us. Just like bad breath and fungal skin infection. Speaking of which, did you know that Marston…”

She’s not listening to him anymore. Her mind is numbed by alcohol and what little attention she has left is concentrating on the sensation of his hands palming fully both of her butt cheeks. She can feel a hardness close to the waistband of his trousers, pressing against her middle section… Hopefully it only means that he still has the gun with him.

Suddenly, Armstrong’s bloodshot eyes are on them. He gets angry and Blore follows his example. The party is over. The nightmare will resume soon… But with a bit of luck, she can manage a few more hours of peace before death strikes again. The meaningful heated glance she exchanges with Philip, each with the hand on their doorknob, lets her know that he shares this thought…

***

Lombard leans against his door, willing the minutes to pass until it’s safe to go join Vera undetected. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, he’s actually a little nervous. Getting laid comes easily for him, usually: an intense look, a sardonic smirk and girls give him carte blanche to use them as he pleases to shag the lust away… But it’s different with Vera. Not only because he couldn’t get his hands up her dress and touch those tantalizing stocking-covered thighs in their first meeting. Being with her, simply talking, feels more intense than anything he shared with a woman before. More… fulfilling maybe. Real. There’s communication in their exchanges, not just a brief physical gratification. They understand each other somehow. Maybe there’s a chance for something more, something he didn’t even know he may have wanted at some point in his adventurous life. He’s willing to give it a try at least. He meant it when he said he’d protect her: he has no intention of letting anyone hurt his cute helpless kitten. He’ll get her out of here alive: he has a gun and he’s certainly not afraid to use it. But for now, he has another kind of shooter he’s very eager to use, he thinks with a wide grin while opening the door and sneaking in the hallway. No use waiting too long either like he did the two previous nights: his cuddly kitty is prone to falling asleep fast and he wants to start with some heavy petting before he can let her finally snuggle against him. There are a lot of ideas he wants to try on her: she’s in for a long night...

Slightly hopping to avoid making the floorboards crack, he gets to her room and hesitates, before deciding to open the door boldly. From the entrance, he can spot her, waiting for him. Their eyes lock. His throat gets dry. The air in the room feels electric, like a storm is about to start.

With cat-like but fast-paced steps, Vera gets past him and locks the door, reclining against it. He feels trapped, in the most delightful of ways: she has him where she wants and he has no intention to escape. It feels too good to be desired, appraised, beckoned by those eyes gleaming in the darkness…

He’s on her in a few slow, deliberate steps. Then, he’s kissing her slowly, almost tentatively, prolonging the pleasurable anticipation of what’s about to come, the stormy look on her half-lidded eyes as she waits for him to take the next step, to make her his. He pecks her lips, before becoming more direct, peppering her with open-mouthed kisses that get wetter and warmer with each taste he has of her. His hands roam her hair, his mouth alternating between caressing her jaw, following her throat and coming back to her addictive mouth again. In the time it takes her to draw a few heated breathes, his fingers have slipped to explore the rest of her body, tracing her sides and making her shiver as if she was under a gust of cold air. She closes her eyes, willing herself to give in the moment, to forget about the nightmares and the ghosts that threaten to cloud her mind… She’s definitively distracted from them when he starts groaning against her throat between kisses, pushing her more intently against the door.

“Little kitty, you feel so soft… I want to caress your fur and lick you… feel your tiny claws on my manly back… I’m going to pet you so thoroughly, you’ll meow for me…”

Rolling her eyes, she interrupts the seductive drawl: “Philip… Philip, just… don’t say anything, okay? You’re ruining the mood, darling …” Meeting his darkened eyes, she adds breathlessly: “Please, you’re so good at this, just… Let your hands do the talking, will you?”

His eyes flash and a smirk graces his lips briefly as he kisses her again, harder. Straight to the point, as always, he loses no time in lifting her up and ripping her underwear and those stockings he was so taken with when they first met. She thinks fleetingly that she never liked them anyway when the powerful stream suddenly breaks through the dam: she’s almost overwhelmed as she lets herself be guided back and forth against the door, drifting with the tide-like pace he’s setting, her fingers griping his shoulders in order not to get drowned in sensation. The flow gets faster and stronger and she feels more and more elated and restless under the surge of feelings, as if she was caught under a summer cloudburst. Her own hands start to run over his body, both dissolving in a blurry hurricane of groping limbs and flying clothes. Her muffled moans sound like thunder in the silence of the room and he silences her with a hard kiss, almost biting her. Lifted in a whirlwind of sensation, she hazily realizes that she’s about to succumb to pleasure, teetering on the edge for a second before falling in the eye of the tornado. Philip follows her with a jolt, like struck by lightning. Her one thought before letting liquid satisfaction pulse through her is that intimacy has never felt so intense before… Then she slips to the ground, her face tucked in the crook of her lover’s shoulder.

***

A few minutes later, they’re sitting on the floor with their backs against the door, still panting. Their undergarments are at their feet, their other clothes have fallen haphazardly across the floorboards. When their breathing has finally calmed down, Philip crawls towards his trousers, which have somehow been thrown into a corner in their haste to get rid of them. He needs a cigarette really badly…. But before he can do little more than get on his hands and knees, Vera jumps on him and makes him roll over.

“Haven’t you heard that smoking is bad for your health, Mr. Lombard?” she whispers sultrily, bracing herself over him, both hands near his head. His eyes darken when he realizes that her naked bust is mere centimeters above his face.

“You little tease, I’ll show you bad…”  he can only start before his playful threat turns into a hiss, then a groan as Vera gets a firm hold of the situation… He was right, she’s a wicked, wicked girl. He throws his head back, reveling in her nimble handiwork. It’s a joy to be proved correct in such a gratifying way…

***

Moments later, getting her breath under control again after a wild roll on the floorboards, Vera thinks she might manage to make it to the bed at last. Her butt hurts from their naughty time on the hard flooring, being bruised from falling hard earlier when she fainted. Maybe pouncing on Philip wasn’t such a good idea after all: who knew the man could be so powerfully assertive when she provoked him?

She’s already hauling her upper body onto the mattress when Philip’s arms grab her waist without warning. He makes her slide back to the floor, bringing a bunch of sheets with her, pressing himself against her again... He’s taken control and soon, she can feel him panting rhythmically against the back of her neck, her body trembling, her forearms bracing on the wood of the bed frame. She hears him mutter something under his breath, about “sheep” and the “big bad wolf”, but she’s too far gone to pay attention. Who cares what foolish thoughts cross the gorgeous moron’s mind when he’s displaying such pleasurable skills, really?

***

“God, my back is killing me” thinks a worn-out Vera as she finally gets on the bed with the grace of a hundred-years-old hippo climbing on the bank after accidentally falling down a waterfall. Philip, always eager, slips by her side, already reaching for her, but she slaps his hand away, stuffing her face in her pillow and muttering indistinctively: “Philip, I want to rest now…”

His face crunches in thought: he couldn’t hear her properly, her voice muffled by the pillow. Did she say she wanted his chest now? But it doesn’t make much sense: she is free to caress his manly muscles as much as she wants already! Suddenly it dawns on him and with a bright smile, he nuzzles the nape of her neck, peppering her skin with light kisses. She sighs under his warm breath, half in annoyance and half in pleasure, before his next sentence makes her go rigid under him.

“When you say chest, you’re talking about the chest of drawers, right? Want to try getting frisky on it?

\- Philip, no! I can’t! My back hurts!”

She’s half turned now, her big eyes gleaming pleadingly in the darkness. He just pats her exposed bruised bottom soothingly, breathing against her ear: “Alright kitty, don’t worry… I have a better idea anyway…” His hands slip under her, gently lifting her hips off the bed and settling her against his taunt muscles, his lower body pressing firmly against her. She heaves a sigh again, her head reclining against the pillow. Who would have guessed the man has such an endless supply of stamina? Maybe Marston’s drug has this effect on him?

His breath against her naked back sends delicious shivers along her spine, when his low voice makes her thought process stop in its tracks, confusingly sensing a threat. Without even looking back, she knows there’s a wolfish grin plastered all over his handsome face. “You’re shuddering… What do you think about wrapping yourself in a nice, fluffy, wool blanket, huh? The better to warm you with, my sweet lamb, right?”

A loud bang in the hallway keeps her from answering. They can hear Blore yelling: “Lombard! Lombard! Get up!” Philip is out of the bed in seconds, slipping his slacks on in one fluid move. He’s already picking his shirt up from the floor when she manages to get up too, her naked form wrapped in the sheets. Without bothering to button the cloth, he unlocks the door and steps out, startling Blore who’s still busy rattling at his official bedroom’s door on the other side of the corridor.

To his credit, the former cop doesn’t comment on his new sleeping arrangement or on their incriminating state of undress. He only shouts: “It’s him! It is Armstrong!”

Vera’s arm freezes around her sheet. The hunt has just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, dear detective-reader, did you find the references?  
> Kudos and canned tongue to you if you did! If you didn't, here's the solution:
> 
> 1) the three couples disguised as commedia dell'arte characters? Think about Poirot's short story The Affair at the Victory Ball!  
> 2) the illusion that Lombard is wearing a checkered outfit and a mask is a nod to the elusive character Harley Quinn in a few short stories  
> 3) apple bobbing? It's in Hallowe'en Party, a novel featuring Poirot again! 
> 
> See you soon and thanks for reading! :)


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